


The Scandal

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [3]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-10
Updated: 2007-06-22
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Someone has it out for Mark Darcy. And someone else has Bridget under a microscope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complete and Utter Gratitude (a.k.a. the dedication): to my dearest [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/)**just_dreamsome** , who was kind enough to send me the series in question and suggested not only the plotbunny for this story but the whole subplot involving this original character (which became merged with the larger story), emailed me, chatted with me, and brainstormed with me, and even got her dear hubby to recommend wine for the character's meals. You're a nefarious influence and a fabulous muse… and you're _always_ right. :*
> 
> I do not live in the UK, so while I strive to be as accurate as possible with regards to legal and police procedure, inevitably there will be errors, and they are all my very own. If there's anything hugely glaring, please do let me know.

O, what authority and show of truth  
Can cunning sin cover itself withal!

—William Shakespeare, _[Much Ado about Nothing. Act iv. Sc. 1.](http://www.bartleby.com/70/1641.html)_

* * *

Tuesday.

_V. v. black day._

She stared at the words she'd written on the page, watched them blur out and disappear as her eyes filled again. She blinked, spilling a flood out onto her cheeks, which she then brushed roughly away. She looked down to find her teardrops were making her handwriting bleed, and she realised it was probably all the entry really needed. It was not likely she'd ever forget the events leading up to it.

………

As days go, it started out ordinarily enough. She was drinking coffee and pulling a hairbrush through her hair in an effort to get ready and get to work on time when her telephone began trilling. The only person who ever called her at that time of the morning (when she was least able to talk) was her mother, so she chose to let it go to the answerphone.

The voice was Jude's. "Bridget. _Bridget!_ If you are there, _pick up!_ This is very, very serious!" Bridget ran for the phone; it was not Jude's depressed-over-Vile-Richard-bleating-sheep's voice, but something far more ominous and desperate. 

"What is it? What's wrong?" Bridget asked as she swiped the phone up. "Is it Shazzer? Tom? What's happening?"

"Bridget," she said darkly. "Have you had the news on this morning?"

For a moment she almost fell into habit and lied like she always did to her boss, because it was ridiculous to work in television and not to be aware of current events. "What? No, of course not; I'm getting ready for w—" she began.

"I think you'll want to phone in today. Switch on the news. We'll be over as soon as we can."

Jude disconnected, and utterly puzzled, Bridget slowly returned her phone to its cradle. She couldn't imagine what Jude could be so worked up over, so rather than speculate, she pressed the power button on the front of the telly.

As the screen came to life, the thing that immediately caught her eye was that just over the left shoulder of the news presenter there was a picture of her very own fiancé dressed as he usually was in his dark suit for work. Unfortunately the telly was muted—leftover from the previous night when Mark had dropped by after work for a quick but thoroughly enjoyable visit—and the remote was not in obvious view. She started rummaging through the pillows of the sofa, throwing them onto the floor until she found it and triumphantly pointed the thing to un-mute the sound.

She would soon discover she wished she hadn't.

"—allegations coming to light from Peabody Laboratories, where a former junior technician, now supervisor at the lab, has come forward claiming he was bribed by Mr Darcy to falsify the results of a forensic test analysis in order for Mr Darcy to win an acquittal for his client, Timothy—"

She didn't really hear anything after that. Sinking to the sofa, the remote slid from her hands. She felt sick and dizzy. There was no way it could be true, no way in the world that Mark Darcy, a man who refused to enter a zebra crossing against the light, ever could have done such a thing.

Snapping to attention and back to reality, she jumped up. She needed to call him, to hear his voice.

Unsurprisingly, his line was engaged. She tried his mobile; it went straight to voice mail. All she could do was leave a shaky message begging him to please call her as soon as he could. 

And then she called her boss.

………

"Whatever you do, don't ring her back."

Mark furrowed his brows, clapping his phone shut to disconnect voice mail. "Why in the world not? She's my bloody fiancée. She's the one person I _do_ want to talk to."

"She works in television, isn't that what you told me?"

Mark turned to train his eyes on the man there with him, waving silver hair combed back from his face, wizened blue-grey eyes returning the gaze without flinching, his jaw set as firmly as stone. Mark knew that look all too well, had spent many years imitating and perfecting it himself. "Yes. She does."

"You can't talk to the media right now, even if she is your future wife," the man said disdainfully. "This is your _lawyer_ advising you, Mark, not your uncle."

Mark blinked in surprise. "I have not retained counsel, _Uncle_ Nick," he said curtly and pointedly.

The older man sighed, breaking his stance at last to pace to the window and back.

"They're still out there, you know. And they are not going anywhere anytime soon."

"You needn't remind me." Mark sighed, thinking of the throng of reporters on the sidewalk in front of his home as he ran his fingers back through his hair. It had been fortuitous timing that his mother's younger brother, Nicholas, had recently arrived for a visit from where he lived and worked in New York City. The man was a genius, a legal powerhouse, and the inspiration in Mark's choosing his own career. Nick was the sort of man Mark wanted by his side during a crisis of this proportion, even if the phrase 'leave well enough alone' didn't seem to be in his personal lexicon.

"So your fiancée," began Nick, "is the same girl you turned down Abbott and Abbott for, am I right?"

"That has nothing to do with anything," Mark said, turning away and pinching the corners of his eyes, weary of feeling like he was being cross-examined.

"It has everything to do with why I came in the first place," Nick advised; Mark turned back to him in surprise. "Elaine told me about your engagement and 'how wonderful and lovely she is and how much I like her'—" Nick lilted into an uncanny impression of his sister, then continued in his normal voice, "—but you know I've never trusted her judgment regarding character, excepting your father, thank God. And Lord knows I don't want another one for you like the last one. So I came to see for myself."

 _You don't think any woman has a brain worth mentioning_ , thought Mark with an exhalation of breath, _not even your sister_. "So what you're saying is that you don't trust my judgment, either?"

Nick's steel-trap gaze fixed upon Mark. "Even the best of men make errors in judgment when it comes to a pretty face or a nice figure. And you _have_ erred before."

That comment cut him to the quick, but he was careful not to show it. "Your solution to this is not to meet her, then," he said.

Nick came close to pat his nephew's shoulder. "One problem at a time, Mark. We've got to get this thing with the technician straightened out first."

Mark hoped his choice of words was a slip of the tongue, or Nick's mind was already set against her.

"Or you never know," Nick added after a pause. "She may have just be ringing to break it off with you." Mark was horrified until he realised an impish grin had spread across his uncle's face. Mark opted to remain silent for the sake of peace in the family. The man never ceased to amaze—or frustrate—him.

………

"It's got to be a huge mistake."

Bridget blinked. "Shaz? When did you get here?"

Shazzer stared at her like she'd sprouted a second head. "About twenty minutes ago. You let me in." Shaz and Jude were flanking her on the couch, and they each had an arm around her, one at her shoulders and one about her waist.

"I'm sorry," Bridget said with a sigh, tears rising in her eyes again. 

"It's all right," said Jude. "You've had a horrible shock."

"And we know he didn't do it," reassured Shaz. "We know first-hand what he did to get you out of prison—he was bound and determined to do everything within the law so nothing could be challenged later."

"So we know he'd be incapable of offering a bribe! Or of suborning perjury for any reason," added Jude. "He would never jeopardise everything he's worked so hard for."

"Absolutely!" reiterated Shaz.

Bridget nodded. She was so glad to have her friends on her side through this, knowing to their core that Mark couldn't have done what he was accused of. "I'm just…. He hasn't called back, and I just feel so helpless."

"I'm sure there's a very good reason he hasn't rung back," offered Tom, who swept in from the kitchen with four small glasses of wine on a tray. It brought to Bridget's mind every past phone-related crisis she'd ever heard Tom say those exact words about, and she promised herself she'd never again get histrionic about not being rung up. "Here. It's a bit early yet, but it's for medicinal purposes."

Bridget shook her head.

Tom, Jude and Shazzer shared a pointed look, as if refusing wine was the last thing they'd expected. 

"Hon," said Tom, "you need this."

She needed to keep a clear head, and reiterated with a firm, "No."

"What about your parents? Should we call them for you?"

She shook her head in negative again. "They've taken a holiday together in Greece." She was at least pleased that the reconciliation had been a success, as much as she would have liked to see them during this catastrophe. "What I need is to see Mark," Bridget said firmly.

Shaz tightened her arm around Bridget's waist. "It's a madhouse over there." She pointed to the telly, which sadistically they'd kept on, although had muted the sound. There was the front of Mark's house with a dozen or more reporters milling about, before it cut to footage of Mark leaving the Aghani-Heany trial after that victory, followed by a cut to Bridget's own interview of Mark for Sit Up Britain.

"God. This is how Finch respects my wishes," Bridget said, pressing her palms into her eyes. He'd seemed understanding enough when she'd called to say she couldn't come in for at least the next few days—he had in fact been expecting it—and she'd asked him to not ask her to try to wangle another interview out of Mark, which he agreed to without hesitation. Now she knew why.

"He's a fucktard," proclaimed Shaz, taking a sip from her own glass. "I should get you on at my paper."

"Yeah." Though Shaz was a journalist, Bridget trusted her friend implicitly and knew that Shaz would never angle for a story at the expense of their friendship. "That doesn't help with the current disaster, though." 

"Ah, but we're clever tool-using monkeys," reminded Tom, who then grinned broadly. "And I have an idea."

………

Amidst the murmur in the crowd of reporters the shrill ringing of a mobile phone began to sound. This was followed by the sharp crack of a flip phone being opened and an ensuing conversation that the others there could not help but overhear, even though the recipient of the call tried to muffle her words.

"Yeah? Uh-huh. Right. Right. Greenwich, eh? Right. Got it." She hurriedly scrawled down some notes onto her pad. "I know where it is. I'll pack up straightaway and get over there. Cheers." She crouched down, looking around herself surreptitiously, and hastily began shoving her half-eaten apple and her notebook into her bag. She then stood, slinging the bag over her shoulder.

"Oy," said a young man accompanied by another with a camera. "Where you buggering off to?"

"Uh," she said with a start, looking back and forth in a panicked fashion. "Nowhere."

The young man cocked his thumb to another of the throng. "'ey, Jer, she's hell for leather out of here for 'nothing'."

Jer grinned evilly. "Smells like an exclusive for whoever gets there first."

She turned and began to walk away, but could still hear them talking.

Another piped up: "Greenwich? What's in Greenwich?"

"Dunno, but let's find out."

"Come on," said another. "I don't even think he's home anyway."

She headed around the corner and slipped into the passenger seat of a blue Mini, which then shot off towards Greenwich. The others were hot on their heels… but the Mini lost them easily in midday London traffic.

………

Nick was still keeping vigil from their second floor post in Mark's bedroom; thankfully he knew better than to step too close to the window and be spotted by the reporters. When he uttered an uncharacteristically incredulous "Hm," Mark turned to see that his uncle's brows were quite thoroughly furrowed.

"What is it?"

"The reporters are dispersing."

"What?" Mark stood to see for himself, and sure enough, they were all scattering towards their respective vehicles and shooting off down the street. They watched in silent amazement until every last one of them had gone. "What's going on?" Mark finally asked, turning to look at his uncle.

Wryly Nick said, "Maybe someone's given a politician a— _hey_." Forgetting protocol for a moment, he bent even closer to the window. "Someone just ran up the walk to the front door."

Alarmed, Mark asked, " _What?_ Who?"

"Couldn't tell. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt."

Mark strode to the door and then took the stairs two at a time. Nick was directly behind him. He reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see a hooded figure facing the front door, quietly closing it.

"If you leave now I will _consider_ not calling the police—" began Mark in his most menacing of voices, stopping short when the figure turned, pushing back the hood. He was filled with relief and he smiled for the first time that day when he saw it was Bridget; he was, in fact, never so happy to see her in all of his life.

………

Bridget ran to Mark and threw her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. He held her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't care. "Mark," she managed, "please tell me what's going—" She stopped when she opened her eyes again and realised they were not alone. She pulled away from him.

At the base of the stairs stood a tall, distinguished-looking older man dressed in a suit. The expression on his face conveyed thinly-disguised annoyance, and his eyes bore imperiously into her.

Mark took her hand and squeezed it gently. She wondered if it meant she looked as intimidated as she suddenly felt. "Nick. This is Bridget Jones. My fiancée."

"I gathered," said the man gruffly, turning his gaze to Mark.

"Bridget, this is Nick Wentworth, my uncle. My mother's brother."

"Oh," she said. She didn't even know his mother had a brother. "It's, um, nice to meet you, Mr Wentworth."

"Likewise, Miss Jones," he said, though it seemed perfectly clear what his true feelings about meeting her were. The sidelong glance Mark gave to his uncle told her that he was not at all pleased with his uncle's behaviour.

He drew her close again. "I'm so glad you're here," Mark murmured as he smoothed down her hair with the pads of his fingers. "Was it you that lured away the mob outside?"

She nodded. "Shaz—er, my friend Sharon—" Her eyes darted to Uncle Nick; for his sake she explained who her friends were. "—infiltrated the reporters and hung out with them for about an hour. Then Tom, my other friend, called her mobile and she faked like she'd just been given a scoop. Jude, another friend, was waiting 'round the corner in her car for Sharon, and then the two of led all off the reporters off on a wild goose chase. And I… had the key you gave me."

"Hm." For a moment, the tone of Nick's voice verged on approving, but then he continued. "I'm sure they won't be away for long when they realise they've been duped."

"It was long enough," Mark said. She thought his voice was softer than he probably intended it to be in the presence of his uncle, but then he looked into her eyes, muttered, "Brilliant," and kissed her.

Bridget felt herself flush red. She didn't quite understand the dynamic between uncle and nephew just yet, but she instinctively knew that she was, somehow, a point of contention. She took his hand again and led Mark to the sitting room, explaining she was eager to know what had happened. Frankly, she was almost more eager to draw attention away from herself.

"Well," began Nick, who had not seated himself on the chair near them, but instead had taken to pacing back and forth in a somewhat unnerving fashion. "A few years ago my nephew defended a man that everyone was certain was guilty of murder. You probably remember it. The Tim Calhoun case."

Her eyes went wide despite herself, and she clasped his hand even more tightly. Calhoun, an Irishman, had been arrested and charged with killing his girlfriend. He had claimed from the start that he was innocent, but had no verifiable alibi, and circumstantial evidence pointed to him. The case had peripherally caught her interest because the murdered girlfriend bore a striking resemblance to Janey 'Jellyfisher' Osborne. "I certainly do remember it. I had no idea that was your case, Mark."

He nodded.

Nick continued: "It was the sort of case that makes careers, and it made Mark's. Forensic analysis of the evidence determined that the DNA under her fingernails, commingled with her own blood, excluded Calhoun completely. He was found not guilty and was subsequently released. He changed his name and moved back to Ireland."

Bridget asked Mark, "So someone's saying you bribed the lab to falsify those results?"

Mark nodded solemnly. "The person claiming this was my primary contact at Peabody Labs. He's saying I did this because I was determined to win the case at all costs specifically because it would put me on the map. He's only now coming forward because he, and I quote, 'can't live with the agony of knowing what I did'."

"What about the evidence from the case?" asked Bridget. "Can it be retested?"

"Unfortunately, the samples have disappeared from evidence storage."

Bridget felt desperation surging in her chest, and she took in a breath to calm herself. "But… but… how can he say this without proof to back up such a ridiculous claim?"

Mark's eyes sunk to where his hands were entwined with hers in his lap; Bridget's stomach lurched. His uncle spoke in Mark's stead. "This man has alleged that he has bank records to back up the claim of the bribe."

Bridget felt her mouth go slack.

Nick finished: "According to what we've been told, there was a very large deposit into this man's bank account three days before the test results were presented in court."

"No. _No._ There must be some kind of mistake." Bridget's eyes shot from Mark to Nick and back again.

"There must be," echoed Mark. He looked to her again with a brave face, but his eyes attested to his fear. "I haven't yet seen this so-called proof myself and I have every intention of going through it with a fine-toothed comb, but I won't lie, Bridget. It looks bad."

She sighed, grasping for any hope possible. "But what about your own bank records? Surely if you'd paid this person off there would be a record of a withdrawal?"

Mark smiled weakly. "I do have that much going for me. There's nothing like that in my own bank records. My accountant has looked into the month in question (and the months prior to that) very carefully, and there's nothing unusual, not even a series of smaller withdrawals equaling the total—he will gladly testify to that in court."

She shuddered at the mention of testifying.

"Ahhh, but that doesn't mean the money didn't come from somewhere else," Nick said, and for a moment he sounded like more than just the devil's advocate. "That's what they'll say, that you've got a secret Swiss account somewhere. Or that the statements from your accountant were forged."

"I know," Mark said grimly, then looked to Bridget again, sadness and anxiety in equal measure upon his face. "You should go."

"What? _No!_ " she exclaimed rather too loudly. "Why would I leave you at such a time?"

"Because the reporters will likely be back soon. They might see you leaving and I don't want to drag you into this with me."

She pushed down her anger at his damnable nobility. "I'm already in this with you," she reminded. He allowed a reluctant smile, and squeezed her fingers gently in acknowledgement. "Mark," she said quietly, "why not come stay with me for a while? No one need know you're there."

"No," answered Nick. "Mark's house is far easier to secure against the media or other… intruders." He shot Bridget an unpleasant look. "There's always someone here, and he has a state-of-the-art alarm."

"Which only helps if it's actually on," said Bridget tartly.

"Bridget," cut in Mark's impatient voice. "He's right. Come on. I'll walk you to the door." He stood, pulling her up with him, then guiding her through the foyer and to the front door with his arm about her waist as if she were a naughty child, to her growing annoyance.

"There's no need to frog-march me out of here," she said crossly, breaking away from him, pulling her sweatshirt hood back up in preparation to leave.

"I'm sorry. I know you're frustrated. So am I." He grasped her wrist again, pulling her close, then raised a hand to her face to caress her cheek softly. "Thank you for… not asking."

Puzzled, she asked, "What, if you did it? I didn't need to; of course you didn't."

He smiled wearily, then bent to kiss her properly and at length, and for a moment she forgot the nightmare that had dropped down upon them and thought of only his lips on hers. As he stood up straight again, his hand lingered on her jaw. "I'll call you soon. I promise."

Tears rose quickly in her eyes. "I'm scared, Mark."

He nodded. "The only thing that's keeping me going right now is knowing I'm innocent… and _you_." He then kissed her again before opening the door and letting her out.

………

"I'll grant you this," came Nick's voice from behind Mark, "she does really seem to love you."

Mark dropped his head. "Please let's not go into this right now."

"Set your alarm," Nick reminded, pointing to the front door, before heading back into the sitting room, undoubtedly to pour himself a tumbler of scotch.

After Mark punched in the arming code, he realised he had not yet gotten a chance to phone his parents and he knew they must be worried out of their minds. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed their number.

After several rings—during which he feared they were not answering their phone due to being bombarded with calls from reporters—his mother picked up with a shaky, breathless, "Mark?"

"Hello, Mother," he said, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. Very unlike him.

The line was silent, but he knew she was there by the sound of her breathing. "Oh, Mark," she said at last, "I don't know what to say. Why would anyone want to do this to you?"

He laughed lightly with a measure of relief in spite of everything; his mother (and his father too, he was certain) wouldn't need to ask, either. "I could think of at least ten cases I've worked on where I've made someone _very_ unhappy with me."

"Mark, don't say that. You do such good work."

"I'm sure the Congolese government, amongst others, would beg to differ."

His mother sighed heavily and he felt dismal for being the cause. "You'll get through this," she said with obviously forced brightness. "You have your uncle and your family, your firm, and most importantly, you have Bridget there with you. I know she has unwavering belief in your innocence."

He smiled genuinely for the second time that day, though suddenly felt Bridget's absence quite acutely. "I am indeed very thankful."

"We would come to the city in an instant if you needed us to," she said. 

"I know you would."

She paused again. "Don't hesitate to ask," she said quietly. "I mean it."

"I know you do."

It was an agony disconnecting that call, for being the cause of her anguish and being unable to comfort her. With a sigh, he decided to join his uncle in the sitting room for two fingers of scotch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original character in this story is based fairly heavily on a character from a miniseries that a young Colin Firth appeared in. Gold stars and thumbs up to anyone (except [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/)**just_dreamsome** , see below) who can guess who he might be based on. :) (I'll reveal who it is when the last part is posted, if no one can guess.)
> 
> While I have scrutinized the scenes in _EOR_ featuring Mark's house (and pondered the layout) at great length, I have had to throw my hands up and take liberties with where rooms are and what's in them, because we don't see as much of it, and it's much more complex a structure than Bridget's flat. Ironically, I'm mostly basing where the rooms are on Jean and Lionel's house from another British series, ["As Time Goes By"](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105943/).


	2. Chapter 2

Wednesday.

The first thing she'd done when she arrived home was turn to her diary for solace, but even that held none for her. The entry she'd made for the day was sparse and splashed with tears. She'd closed the journal and set the pen down on it.

Unsurprisingly, sleep was elusive that night. She tossed and turned before finally just accepting she would get no rest that night and sat up, looking at the clock. Three a.m. She sighed.

There was little she could do at that time of the night to occupy herself. She didn't want to phone Mark, because if he had somehow managed to fall asleep, she certainly didn't want to wake him. With Shaz crashed out on the sofa it would have been cruel to play a movie. She decided maybe she could dig up an unfinished book and read it; since getting out of publishing, reading was actually something she looked forward to doing.

She thought of the one she wanted, a book about a time traveler and his wife, one that she'd gotten as a Christmas gift from, of all people, Elaine Darcy. She had been reluctant to read it and had thought Mark's mother had gone mad for giving a corny science-fiction novel to her. She'd opened it strictly out of duty, but quickly (and happily) discovered it was not science-fiction at all. She soon found herself thoroughly captivated by the quirky love story. She'd unfortunately had to set it aside for her parents' renewal of vows three months prior, and had not had the free time to return to it. Now seemed the perfect time, and thankfully it was on the shelf where she'd last remembered placing it beside the framed photo of Mark. She went to the kitchen and made herself some warm milk, grabbed a couple of chocolate biscuits, then sat at the little table there to read.

She had just gotten thoroughly entrenched again when she realised she was hearing the same very loud car, sporting a damaged or missing muffler, come down the street for the fourth or fifth time. This time, however, it lingered close to the building before cutting out altogether, as if it had been parked. Knitting her brows she tiptoed to the window behind the sofa and stealthily glanced out. She saw a black sedan had parked on the street in front of her building. The driver's door swung open and man stood up from behind the wheel while continuing to talk on his mobile phone… and to her horror, he looked directly up at her flat with a broad grin plastered across his visage. He was saying what Bridget took to be "Yes" as he nodded his head enthusiastically.

Bridget gasped and pulled back from the window. _My God_ , she thought. _They've found me._ She then scolded herself for being so overly dramatic, like some kind of mob snitch with a hit out on her.

Scolded herself only until a second, third and fourth car joined it shortly thereafter.

Shaz's sleepy voice cut through the darkness: "Bridget? Whatcha doing?"

"I think the media's onto me," she said in a pathetic tone.

"What?" Shaz was bolt upright and awake in a matter of seconds, leaping to the window. When her eyes fixed on the gathering vehicles below, she whistled and leaned closer. " _Jesus_ , Bridge."

"Stay back," hissed Bridget. "I don't want them to see us."

"It's dark in here. They can't see—"

At that moment the entryphone buzzed. 

"Fuck. I'll get it," said a thoroughly pissed-off Shazzer. She bounded to the entryphone, picked it up and barked gruffly into it. "Listen, it's the middle of the night, she doesn't want to talk to you—" At Bridget's frantic gesticulating, Shaz amended, "—and besides, she's not here, anyway! Fuck off and bloody well die!" Triumphantly, she slammed it down.

Amazingly, the entryphone did not ring again. Bridget exchanged glances with her friend, silently optimistic and glad that the storm had passed. That deflated quickly several minutes later when there was a knock on the flat door.

"Hey, Bridget? Vanessa here. There's a woman down on the street, says your buzzer must not be working—should I let her up for you?"

"Hell no!" shrieked Shaz. 

There was an obviously stunned silence before Vanessa replied, "Did you say 'no'?"

Bridget went to open the door, but Shaz stopped her. "Who the hell is Vanessa?" she asked quietly.

"Downstairs neighbour."

Shaz stepped back. The door opened to reveal a tired, cranky-looking woman, her normally sleek, dark bob mussed from sleep ( _and_ , thought Bridget, _God knows what else_ ) and her arms folded across her chest. "I'm sorry," began Bridget, then launched into an explanation of who was down there, and why.

Vanessa's hand came up to cover her mouth as the story unfolded. "Oh, crikey, I am so glad I came up to ask. I _never_ made the connection that that lovely man of yours was the one all over the telly. I'm _sooo_ sorry!" Impulsively she threw her arms around Bridget, who was so grateful for the comfort she burst into uncontrollable tears and hugged her neighbour back.

"You can't stay here, Bridge," said Shaz, embracing her friend, forming a much-appreciated group hug. "They're going to hold your entire building captive."

Shaz was right. They would continue to harass her neighbours until they got to her.

"Is there somewhere you can go?" Vanessa asked.

"Call Mark," Shaz commanded, standing up straight again.

"Shaz," Bridget began, turning to face her friend, "as you pointed out, it's the middle of the night."

"Oy." The three women glanced up to see Dan, the Australian man in the flat directly below Bridget's. "You expecting more people to this party? 'Cause there's a guy keeps buzzin' me flat."

Bridget sighed. "I'll call Mark."

………

The soft buzz of the mobile on vibrate didn't come as a surprise to Mark, even though it was nearly four-thirty in the morning. As exhausted as he was, it wasn't as if he'd actually been sleeping. He palmed the phone from his nightstand, glanced at the display, and opened it.

"Hello, darling," he said wearily.

"Mark." 

In just that one word, he could tell she was tired, but even more so, she sounded desperate. "What's wrong?"

"They found me."

Mark was instantly alert. "Who?" he asked, though he was afraid he already knew.

"The reporters," she said, confirming his fears and sending his gut into a downward spiral. "I've got Shaz here for company and she's already cursed them out via the entryphone, but they're swarming my building like killer bees, buzzing not only my flat but all the flats in my building…" 

"Get some things together. You're coming here."

"But what about your uncle? He doesn't like me."

"He doesn't _know_ you," he said gently. "And besides, I don't take kindly to ultimatums, so if he makes me choose, I'll send him packing to my parents'."

She chuckled, and he was glad to hear it. "Okay." After a pause, she added, "How am I going to get there?"

"Leave that to me. Just tell Sharon not to swear at the entryphone next time it buzzes, okay?"

………

As it turned out, Mark's idea for getting the two of them out of her flat involved the police. She and Shaz fled the building with their arms over their faces and carrier bags filled with clothes, makeup, diary and the book Bridget had most recently been reading. Occasionally the flash of a camera went off; she felt like a celebrity fleeing the paparazzi, then realised that's exactly what she was doing and vowed never to buy a tabloid again. She was, however, secretly pleased that she'd taken a moment to fix herself up despite the grumbling of the young police constable.

Once they were safely within the police car, their escort turned to look at them. "You both going to Mr Darcy's, then?"

"No, no," said Shaz. "You can just drop me off at my flat. It's not too far out of the way."

Constable Duncan, as he'd informed them was his name, merely fixed them with a look that communicated his displeasure with having to run young women all over town.

"We really appreciate your coming to save us," spoke up Bridget in a placating tone. "I felt like we were under assault in my building. Thank you."

A small smile overtook the corner of his mouth as he turned forward again and put the car into drive.

"We're not being followed, are we?" asked Bridget, looking behind them. She didn't see anyone, but she didn't exactly consider herself a master of intrigue and subterfuge.

The constable's eyes flashed up to look at her in the rear view. "No, miss. Besides, they already know where we're going."

Bridget sighed and reclined into the seat, feeling somehow even more miserable.

As they pulled up in front of Shazzer's building, Shaz grasped Bridget's hand and squeezed it. "It'll be okay," Shaz said. "Call me tomorrow—er, later, and we can talk about how we can fix this."

Bridget managed a half-hearted smile. "Thank you for wanting to help."

"We owe it to him. He got you back, didn't he?"

After a brief but tight hug, Shaz grabbed her small overnight bag and left the car.

Upon approaching Mark's, Bridget was delighted to see that the reporters had not yet set up camp there for the day, and the ones who'd found her flat must have needed a bit of time to pull up stakes there. Constable Duncan escorted her to the door and knocked softly.

There were footfalls on the hardwood floor just inside—probably disabling the alarm—before the door swung open to reveal Mark. He must have been hovering near the door waiting for her. Bridget fought the urge to gasp. She had never seen him look so haggard. She dropped her bags on the floor and embraced him.

There was a soft sound behind her, a gentle throat-clearing, before the police constable spoke. "I'll be going now, then."

Mark gently urged her away from him. "Thank you, Constable. Your service is very much appreciated." He held out his hand and the constable shook it firmly.

"Sir, miss," he said, touching the brim of his police helmet with each address before withdrawing through the front door.

………

Mark reset the alarm then turned back to her, reaching to hold her again; having her there with him, securely in his arms, was extremely reassuring. "I don't know why I didn't just ask you to stay here to start with," he said quietly. "Hope the trip here wasn't too eventful." 

He felt her tighten her arms around his waist. "I'm sorry to cause such a fuss at this hour," she said.

He pulled back, taking her hands in his own. "As you might have guessed, it's not like you woke me up. However, now that you're here, I might actually be able to get some sleep."

"Yes, now that you don't have to worry about what trouble Shaz and I are getting into," she said teasingly. 

At the mention of her friend, he knit his brows. "Where is Sharon?"

"The constable took her home first."

He could not help but laugh lightly at the image of the young constable being directed to Sharon's flat as if he were a taxi driver. For a brief moment things felt almost normal, or at least as normal as things got with Bridget in his life. "Besides, darling, I always sleep better when you're with me, even with the possibility that I might be awakened by thought vibes."

She looked to him with a coy smile. 

"Come on," he continued, leading her to the staircase. "Let's see if we can manage a few hours' sleep."

They slipped out of their clothes and climbed into bed, though sleep was not to be found right away. Being nestled in the comfort of her embrace and showered with her soft kisses soon (and perhaps inevitably) led to tender lovemaking. It was just the relief he'd needed on a multitude of levels; afterwards, having her spooned up against his chest, he was able to drift off to sleep almost immediately.

………

Even in the midst of chaos, it was prudent to stick to routine. Thus a cleansing shower and full grooming was on the schedule for this morning, and as Nick stood under the water he contemplated his first impressions of Mark's intended.

She was clever, he gave her that, to lure the reporters away. She was pretty in a wild kind of way, with a sweet, soft face and a quite nicely proportioned figure, not the same sort of sunken-cheeked, anorexic, polished woman he was used to seeing Mark with (he'd gotten an earful from Elaine about the last one, a certain Natasha). She was also clearly spontaneous—certainly the reporter-luring plan had been spur-the-moment, and her lack of concern when it came to running to Mark and hugging him without even checking to see if they were alone was a little alarming, knowing his nephew—but quite naïve when it came to legal matters; probably all she knew of the law was from watching "Inspector Morse". And sneaking around into houses dressed in clothing more suitable for a street urchin… almost intolerable to consider for a future niece-in-law. Very un-ladylike.

_Of course_ , he pondered as he towel-dried his hair and prepared his shaving cream, _it could all be an act, a charming act designed to trap Mark into marriage_. The boy would of course be intrigued by someone as different as Bridget, and who wouldn't be attracted to a successful, handsome, prestigious man like Mark? What woman in their right mind wouldn't want to snag a man like his nephew?

He rinsed off the blade, stopping to regard his reflection in the mirror before continuing to shave. The mask might very well drop when she realised his life might be completely destroyed by this scandal, and if it did, it hopefully wouldn't devastate him too badly.

………

Bridget woke with Mark's arms about her and a contented smile on her face, peaceful bliss for a few moments until she remembered the events of the previous day: Mark, the technician, accusations of bribery and legal malfeasance. She turned over to gaze upon his serene countenance, which made her feel immediately better.

She had a thought to bring up some coffee, so she slipped out from his embrace, dressed in Mark's overly large terry robe and padded down to the kitchen. Behind the stainless steel doors she managed to locate the French press and the coffee, got the kettle on, and was just pulling the kettle from the hob and pouring the water into the press when she heard footsteps coming down the staircase. "Oh, darling," she called apologetically, "I was going to bring _up_ some coffee…"

She stopped short when she turned to see it was in fact Nick who had entered the kitchen. "That's all right, sweetheart," he said drolly, leaning on the jamb with a wry grin. Reflexively she pulled the sides of the collar of the robe closer together.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting to see _you_." She engaged his eyes and was determined not to look away.

"Ditto."

She pursed her lips. "Reporters found my flat and Mark insisted I come here."

"Ah."

She raised her chin, feeling braver. "Want some coffee?"

"No thank you," he said, his voice emotionless. "I've actually just come down for some lunch."

Forgetting her resolve, her eyes darted to the clock on the far wall and she was horrified to see it was nearly noon. She looked back to Nick. "It _was_ a bit late when I got here."

"Yes. I'm sure it was." Finally he ended their standoff and passed by her to enter the kitchen proper, getting bread from the invisible modern breadbox and then heading for the refrigerator. She grabbed the French press and set it on the tray where she'd set a couple of cups, deciding she'd rather drink her coffee black than climb over Nick to get to the container of milk, or search in that bewildering kitchen in front of him for the sugar bowl.

When she got back to the bedroom Mark had not budged. She placed the tray down then gingerly sat herself beside him again. She drew her fingers to his cheek and he stirred ever so slightly. "Mark. _Mark_. Wake up."

He jerked awake then blinked as if he were startled. "Bridget."

"Yes."

His eyes darted to the window as if he were analysing the angle of the light filtering through. "Christ. What time is it?"

"Um, almost noon."

"Oh fuck, I'm late." He sat up, rattling the coffee cups, which startled him again.

"Late for what?"

"For…" And like that he seemed to remember what had happened; his entire face fell. "Oh. Right." 

"Sorry." She grabbed the tray, pushed down on the press, poured then and handed him a cup. 

He set the cup down on the bed, still holding on to it, and buried his face in his free hand. "I'd forgotten. Jeremy's taken my caseload." 

"Ah."

"Until things get sorted out."

"Of course." She pulled her feet up and sat cross-legged, then cradled her cup with both hands. They sipped in silence for several minutes.

"Thank you for the coffee, darling. It's very good."

"You're welcome." She smiled; she knew her coffee was always either too strong or too weak, but he always praised her for it regardless. "So tell me a little about your uncle. Where does he live? What does he do?"

"He's my mother's younger brother. He's a very successful lawyer, and has been in New York City for probably twenty years now. Since I never had an interest in military service, I sort of looked up to him as a career role model. I was always fascinated by his work and it inspired me to follow in his footsteps."

She was confused, and was certain it showed on her face. "Why have I never heard of him before?"

Mark grinned. "I can assure you it wasn't intentional—"

There was a brisk knock on the bedroom door. Before Mark had a chance to respond, Nick's voice sounded from the hallway: "Mark? The police are downstairs and would like to speak to you. Do you think you might want to retain counsel now?"

………

Mark drank down his coffee in record time as he groomed in the bathroom, then quickly dressed in slacks and a light cotton jumper. He went over to the bed where Bridget was sitting with her mostly-empty cup still cradled in her hands. She looked sad, slightly wounded, and had since he'd asked her to stay upstairs for this.

"You're afraid I'll embarrass you," she'd said sullenly.

"No, darling," he'd reassured. "This is a preliminary interview and they're doing me a courtesy as an officer of the court by not bringing me down to the precinct. And legally, I'd really prefer not to get you involved, since I didn't even know you when this alleged incident occurred."

That had seemed to mollify her, but she still looked upset.

"This won't take long. Why don't you shower and when I'm done, I'll come upstairs for you."

"I still wish I could be there though."

"I know. And that's enough." He bent and kissed her forehead, then strode out of the room.

He found Nick waiting for him at the top of the stairs. "Took you long enough," he grumbled, then preceded him down.

They entered the sitting room, where a man wearing the uniform and rank insignia of an Inspector was standing with his hands folded behind his back. He'd been looking at a framed photograph on the wall, but turned to greet them. "Hello, Mr Wentworth, Mr Darcy. I'm DI Kirby, and I just want to ask you a few questions about…. Well. I'm sure you know what I'm here about."

"Yes, sir, I do. Please, have a seat." Mark sat on the sofa, and his uncle took a perch between him and the inspector, who seated himself on a chair opposite.

DI Kirby pulled out a notepad, then poised a pen above the paper in preparation to write. "So. Let's start with the day you agreed to defend Tim Calhoun against the charge of murdering his girlfriend, Josie Fairfax."

………

Twenty minutes.

Bridget had been in the shower under the full-blast hot tap for twenty minutes. Although her thoughts were with Mark, who was downstairs and possibly being grilled by the police, her body was subconsciously accustomed to that length of time; it was about as much time as she had while she was showering in her flat before the hot water ran out.

And when that twenty minute mark hit, it was almost as if she'd woken from a dream; she actually gasped as she emerged from her fugue. Her fingers had pruned up and she hadn't even rinsed the conditioner from her hair. Out of habit she began to hurry through the rest of her scrubbing routine, then reminded herself where she was. Here, in Mark's palatial Holland Park home with its seemingly endless supply of hot water, there was no hurry. And she had a lot of thinking to do.

She didn't know enough about the situation to have any idea who might benefit from this, who might wish not only to discredit Mark but potentially ruin his legal career or send him to prison…. She shuddered at the thought of him behind bars. Her first instinct was to think that somehow Roger Dwight—a.k.a. Fucking Jed—was behind this, but upon further reflection she decided that while he might have been a drug smuggling genius and master manipulator of potential pigeons, his ability to arrange, from prison, for bank records to be falsified and a lab technician to be coerced into lying was probably a bit of a stretch, even with his network of henchmen. Besides, she told herself (with a distinct sinking feeling), putting a low-level drug smuggler away was probably the least controversial, least politically-charged case he'd ever worked on. 

By the time she emerged she was very pink, very warm, and her muscles completely relaxed, but her mind was racing. She had to get to the bottom of this.

She hadn't had a whole lot of time to pick and choose her wardrobe before fleeing her flat, and so she dressed from the available selection in a comfortable pair of denims and a sweatshirt. She did, however, take the time to dry her hair and put a little makeup on, not only for the sake of normalcy, but (in a bizarre throwback sort of way) she wanted every aspect about herself to be pleasing for Mark. She even dabbed a little perfume behind her ears.

While putting on the finishing touches (mascara, blusher) she heard her mobile ringing and she dashed for the phone. She grabbed it and saw by the incoming caller display that it was Shazzer. "Hey," she said, flipping open the phone. "I'm sorry I didn't call sooner."

"'S okay," she said. "How's it going?"

"Just got up a little while ago, and the police are talking to Mark downstairs right now."

" _Shit_."

"Yeah," she said with a sigh, walking to gaze out the window. The reporters were back; though she couldn't really see them from her angle, she could see their vehicles parked along the street. "Though I suppose it was inevitable."

"I suppose," Shaz admitted. "I'm surprised you're not down there."

"Mark asked me to stay out of the way. Didn't want the police to get any ideas about questioning me."

"Hm. He has a point, but it's kind of too bad," said Shaz. "How else are we going to find out anything about what this is about?"

"I'll ask him later for details, and then we can start looking into this for ourselves, because I am _not_ going to sit back and let someone railroad him into—"

She was interrupted by a familiar but stern voice: "You will do no such thing."

Bridget turned around to see Mark in the doorway, his brown eyes especially dark and hooded, his face set in angry lines.

Bridget muttered, "Have to go," into the phone before closing it. "Mark…"

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His voice was equally severe as he continued: "I'm not joking around. You will not attempt to investigate this on your own. Someone has specifically targeted me for unknown reasons, and I will not have you put yourself between them and me."

Exasperated, she asked, "Do you honestly expect me to sit around this house and do nothing while someone's trying to ruin you?"

"The police are handling this." He took her hands, held them gently in his own, as the vexation drained from his face. "I told them everything I could—and told them that nothing at the time stood out or seemed unusual, not even my communication with the lab."

"What sort of communication would you have even had? It's not like you are the police or that they had to report to you…"

"Well, they're an independent lab, but only time they ever called me was to—" He stopped short, then actually smiled. "No, Bridget; nice try, but you are _not_ getting this information out of me. I am keeping you as in the dark as much as I possibly can, whether you like it or not." He leaned forward and kissed her briefly, then opened his mouth to speak again.

She cut him off with a pout: "Don't you dare say 'it's for your own good'."

"I was going to say 'You look nice' followed by 'Let's have something to eat'."

"Oh," she replied sheepishly. 

His lip curled up in another small smile, and he said, "Come on." He held his hand out to allow her to precede him, then turned to follow her down the staircase. They descended to the first floor. She was still feeling a little wounded at the thought of being scolded for caring too much, not to mention she was bristling with aggravation. When was he going to learn that telling her not to do something only strengthened her resolve to do it? 

When they arrived in the kitchen, Nick was loading his plate into a dishwasher Bridget had never even known the location of before. How was it he knew Mark's kitchen better than even Mark did? Nick offered a thin-lipped, insincere smile to Bridget and said, "Hello. Enjoy your coffee?"

"Yes," she said flatly.

"Mark," Nick continued. "Your secretary is waiting in your office. She's brought you something."

"My _secretary_?"

"Tall, thin, long straight hair. Very pretty."

Bridget blurted out, "Rebecca?"

"That's it." Nick trained his eyes on Bridget, and he had a strange look in them. Was he… amused? "You know her?"

Bridget's mind flashed back to the previous summer. "I do."

He smirked, confirming her suspicions. "Not jealous, are you?"

She could not help but laugh, thinking of when Rebecca had confessed her crush on Bridget, then had surprised her with a kiss. " _Hardly_."

Mark cut in. "She is not my secretary. She's my assistant."

"Same difference." Nick cocked an eyebrow, pointing a thumb back up the stairs. "You're keeping her waiting."

Mark's annoyance at his uncle was clear, but his sense of obligation to Rebecca, not wanting to keep her waiting, was causing an inner conflict equally apparent on his face. "Go on, Mark," said Bridget. "I'll make us some sandwiches."

He nodded, then headed out of the kitchen.

She made a couple of sandwiches out of whole meal bread, turkey breast, cheese and mustard. For some reason Nick did not leave, but he didn't say anything either, simply stood there like he had in the doorway earlier that day.

Finally, after cutting the sandwiches diagonally through the corners, she set the knife down with a show of impatience, and looked to him. If his ongoing plan was to intimidate her, it was no longer working. "Is there something I can do for you?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Just wanting to get to know you a little better, since we'll be family and all."

"By… watching me make sandwiches?"

"I don't trust a woman who can't make a sandwich."

She looked down at her sad little sandwiches, with their triangular halves of unequal size and cut through with jagged, uneven lines, and she wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or a put-down. However, a wild thought flitted through her head: she was alone with a man who might be able to give her a little insight on the present situation. In a tone that suggested she might have already known more than she did, she asked, "So, what exactly has Rebecca brought?"

He considered her again before answering. "She didn't say, but it might be the copies of the technician's bank statements. She mentioned that the packet had arrived by courier to Inns at Court."

"Ah." Feeling brave, she pressed on: "What about—"

"Bridget. I told you not to get involved."

With impeccable timing yet again, Mark had returned. She turned to look at him; his face was quite red, his jaw set firmly, his brows drawn together and his voice very disapproving.

"Can't I ask your uncle a simple question?"

He pursed his lips. "You and I both know it was more than a simple question."

"Mark," she continued, "you can trust me—"

"With the information? Absolutely," he interrupted, sounding more like a father than a fiancé. "But I want you to stay out of this for your own protection. Haven't I already made that perfectly clear?" 

There were a few silent, tense moments where they simply looked to one another. He finally broke away to get some wine glasses and search for a bottle of wine. She looked down to her creations, which became blurred as tears threatened to fill her eyes; she refused to let them, blinked them rapidly away. 

Bridget had completely forgotten about Nick's presence until he said, "Enjoy your sandwiches." When she glanced back to him he was turning to leave, and she swore she saw him grinning, obviously delighted.

………

Herding cats. The concept of herding cats suddenly popped into Mark's mind as he glanced up across the corner of the table at Bridget, who nibbled at her turkey and cheddar sandwich, staring at her plate in chastened silence; she hadn't said a word in at least twenty minutes. He knew better though: she was probably thinking how best to further circumvent him to get the information she wanted. His mouth slipped into a reluctant smile; he realised he would have expected no less.

It was, he felt, time for a strategic compromise. He could give her enough information to keep her curiosity at bay, and reassure her that the police had things well in hand. Keeping her out of the loop completely was obviously not going to work; he might as well let her think she was part of the process, to keep her from feeling helpless and haring off on her own in a misguided attempt to out-police the police.

He realised he must have been staring into space in her direction, for she glanced up in mid-chew. After finishing her mouthful, she swallowed then asked in a petulant tone, "What, have I smeared mustard on my chin? Shall I get your uncle so you can point out yet another flaw to him?"

He hadn't given much thought to what amounted to dressing her down in front of his uncle, and he was immediately contrite. "Of course not. I'm very sorry about earlier." He set his sandwich down. Recalling their earlier conversation in the bedroom, he continued. "The only time the lab ever called me was to give me the results. I never called them except to arrange delivery of the evidence from police custody. And yes. Rebecca did bring the bank statements."

She blinked in surprise. "I thought I was being kept in the dark for my own protection."

He reached across and took her hand. "I have belatedly and regrettably realised that such an endeavour is futile. One, I know you well enough to know that you'd try to find some other way to get it, possibly involving hurting or, at the very least, embarrassing yourself; and two, well—" His smile faded and he squeezed her hand, suddenly feeling very serious. "It behooves me to continue to be completely open and honest with you."

Her whole face softened, and she smiled, her eyes becoming glossy. She squeezed his hand back, and said, "You don't know what that means to me."

"I think I do." He leaned forward to embrace her, then continued. "Bridget, I'll share with you what I can. But you must believe me when I say the police are doing as much as they can in investigating this, and you must not interfere. Will you promise me that?"

Close in his own ear, she whispered, "I promise I won't interfere."

He pressed his lips to her cheek, then pulled away. "I'm going to spend some time in my office reviewing what Rebecca has brought. I trust you can find something to occupy yourself with."

She nodded. "I brought the book your mother gave me for Christmas."

They rose and went to stairs leading out of the kitchen. He gestured she should head up first. When they got to the landing, he took her hands, and leaned in to kiss the top of her head. "I'll see you when I'm finished." She nodded, heading for the staircase that led to the upper floor.

He was just a few steps from the office door when he heard her call after him, "You'll tell me, right?"

He stopped, turning around. "Tell you what?"

"What you find."

He smiled. "Yes, of course." She smiled tentatively, then turned for the staircase.

He half-expected his office to look different, somehow, or to be occupied with reporters, but he found the same law books awaiting him, the same mahogany desk and cordovan leather office chair he'd had for years. There on the desk was the envelope Rebecca had brought for him, right where he'd set it after she'd handed it to him. She'd been very sweet, offering any help she could provide, said that she'd already had Horatio and Camilla in corporate law take a look at them. He'd told her that was okay; he'd planned on asking them himself. More importantly, she'd asked with real concern after both Bridget and himself. He'd assured her they were fine, even though he was feeling far from fine.

Someone was out to ruin him in nearly every way possible that was important to him. How could he be fine?

He sat at the desk, opened the envelope, and looked at the statement. The pages, two in all, had been printed by the bank on letterhead and looked completely legitimate. Lots of columns and rows of numbers with dates and amounts and…. He sighed. He realised he didn't have the mental fortitude to process the information on these papers, and though Rebecca said the police had already examined their own copies, he decided to get his uncle to take a look.

As he suspected, Nick was in the front room, watching the news on the telly. Not even looking up from the screen, he said, "You'll be happy to hear, Mark, that a top-level Tory has been caught _in flagrante delicto_ with someone who's not his wife. Another _man_ , to be precise."

He brought his brows together in confusion. "Why should that make me happy?"

"Because the reporters have fresh meat, and they've vacated but for one or two obvious lower-rung reporters."

Mark sighed, running his fingers through his hair, feeling guilty for enjoying the reprieve. "I need you to look at something for me in my office, if you don't mind."

"The papers your secre—er, _assistant_ , brought you."

"Yes."

Nick glanced to the door, suddenly clocking that Mark had come in alone. "What, have you sent Bridget off to her room like a naughty child?" he asked wryly.

"Of course not," he replied. "I was in the wrong, talking to her like that. I've already apologised, and given her the information she wanted."

"Just enough to keep her happy and her nose out of your business, hm?"

_Exasperating_ , thought Mark.

"Well," Nick continued, switching off the telly and rising to accompany Mark. "It's a good thing you've kept away from the press; they'd interpret all of your silences correctly. Come, let's see what your Rebecca has brought."

………

The whole thing was coming together far better than could have ever been expected. The evidence appeared rock solid, the accuser beyond reproach, and not a single loose end that could be betrayed without tenfold repercussions on the betrayer.

Yes. Initial doubts were fading, replaced with smug confidence. This was going to work and all difficulties would be taken care of.

………

_Things to find out._

Bridget had gone upstairs intent on reading her book, but when she read the same page three times she knew she'd better give up. Instead she found her diary and a pen and opened it to the back where there were some blank pages, and did what she did best: made a list.

_Technician._ She had to find out about the technician laying charges at Mark's door; at this juncture she wasn't even sure if the accuser was a man or a woman. She could ask Shazzer to see what she could dig up.

_Calhoun._ She was going to have to do a little research on the Calhoun case too, but she only needed access to the newspapers' archives. Perhaps again she could enlist Shaz. Bridget knew there were details about the case she either never knew or could no longer remember since the case was from at least five years ago, and as Mark was not about to hand over his case files to her (he probably wouldn't even if he could, given his earlier reaction), she figured the print reports were as good as she was going to get.

_Evidence._ She wanted to see the papers that Rebecca had brought over, though that was going to be a touch more challenging, since Mark was unlikely to just volunteer her a look-see. And even if she could get her hands on them, it would probably read like Greek to her—but she still wanted to try. She sighed. This was the only evidence, though, so she kept it on the list.

_Poss. motive._ Bridget had no real idea if this was revenge upon Mark for the Calhoun case. The only people with a real motive were the victim's family if they hadn't thought justice was served, and perhaps Mark was the closest available target. It also could have been for some other case in which he'd stirred up a hornet's nest, because to hear him talk of Indonesians, Peruvians, Chechens and similar, he was practically beating them off each other with sticks. With a sickening dread she realised it was also possible it was just a smear campaign designed to ruin him for something other than professional reasons. She couldn't think of a soul who hated Mark so much on a personal level, excepting possibly Daniel Cleaver or his ex-wife, but even that was a stretch. To ruin Mark like this, to take away everything he'd worked so hard for, would be a disproportionate response to anything Mark could have been accused of doing to either; surely neither would go so far.

A chill ran up her spine: even if he was never charged with a crime or was not disbarred, the innuendo alone might be enough to keep him from the courtroom for the rest of his life. The court of public opinion, as people liked to refer to it, would not need to have proof beyond a reasonable doubt.

She knew taking his career away would utterly crush him.

She brought the pen to her lips, biting on the end. It was a short list at present, but she had to start somewhere, and she had every intention of expanding it. Technically she was not breaking her promise as she had no desire to interfere with the police's investigation. She had made no such oath, however, about not attempting to further educate herself about the situation and to bring her own (as Mark had often called it) unique perspective to the situation.

She folded the diary shut, then set the pen down on top of it. She then rested her head upon her hands to think.

………

With the utterly recognisable sensation in his toes signaling the return of blood flow after too long being seated in one position, Mark gingerly trudged up the stairs. He hadn't expected Nick to take one look at the papers and proclaim them fraudulent, but he also hadn't expected him to spend two hours poring over every line on the page. Nick was still at his down in the office, but Mark had to leave him to it. His eyes were burning and he was weary beyond all sense, and although it was only five in the evening, he wanted nothing more than to nap.

He swung the door open to the bedroom, preparing to call Bridget's name out, but he saw her there upon the bed, apparently fast asleep on her stomach. Her cheek was resting on folded hands, her golden hair splayed upon her face. Her diary and the book she'd been reading sat closed off to one side on the mattress.

Carefully he slipped the diary and book off on to the nightstand. The appearance of the diary wasn't at all surprising. She was probably detailing the day for posterity as she was wont to do, possibly even making one of her lists, one of those things she just did without thinking whenever she was powerless to do anything else.

She turned over onto her left side, snoring softly and pulling the duvet up from the foot of the bed and over onto herself. With a smile he kicked off his shoes, slipped under the edge of the duvet and up next to her. Reflexively, without waking, she put her right arm about his waist and snuggled up to him. He drew her near, kissed the hairline by her temple, and although he was fully dressed in his suit trousers, belt and dress shirt, he fell to sleep within minutes.

……… 

With a snort of annoyance, Nick set the paper down and rubbed thick fingers into the corners of his eyes. If there was a chink in this particular suit of armour, he couldn't find it, and though his years of practising law had trained him to spot one wrong word in paragraphs of legalese, he finally had to admit defeat when it came to interpreting financial transactions. 

He glanced to the clock and was astounded to see it was nearly six in the evening. He had been vaguely aware of Mark buggering off claiming fatigue at some point but he had otherwise had no concept of the passage of time. He realised also by the rumbling in his stomach that supper would soon be required. He went in search of his nephew and that fiancée of his to see what their dinner plans were.

After a perfunctory search of the lower floors—not in the kitchen, sitting room, etc.—Nick went to the upper floor, neither expecting nor finding any obvious signs of Mark's presence in the guest rooms. He saw the master bedroom door was opened wide, and for a moment he disgustedly wondered if they would really be so exhibitionistic and uncouth as to leave the door ajar whilst commencing intimate relations. To announce his approach, Nick raised his knuckles to rap lightly on the door, but stopped short when he heard deep-slumber snoring and simultaneously saw Mark's stocking feet and the cuffs of his trousers protruding off the side of his bed from under a duvet that had been flipped over him like a Mexican flour tortilla. Quietly Nick stepped into the room and observed that Mark had grabbed a pillow and was sleeping on the corner of it, lying prostrate with one sleeved arm resting above his head, while his fiancée, also apparently fully dressed, had her cheek resting comfortably upon his back, an arm slung over his side.

Much to his astonishment he found the scene quite touching. He had been quite prepared to write the girl off as a social climbing gold-digger, but she continued to surprise him with her ingenuity, her feistiness… and even her willingness to stand up to _him_. He wasn't sure quite yet if she was good enough for his nephew, but she clearly was head and shoulders above the one Mark had married.

As silently as he had stepped in the room, he slipped out, closing the door behind himself. He decided that he could fend for himself for the evening meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Elaine Darcy gave Bridget for Christmas, is, you guessed it, ["The Time Traveler's Wife"](http://www.amazon.com/Time-Travelers-Wife-Audrey-Niffenegger/dp/015602943X/ref=pd_bbs_2/104-4404553-3021533?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1181460928&sr=8-2) by Audrey Niffenegger.
> 
> By the way: Tim Calhoun was named after a character in a sketch on Saturday Night Live. Mr. Firth played his lawyer. :)


	3. Chapter 3

Thursday.

Waking and not having any idea what time of day or night it was one of the most disconcerting feelings in the world, aside of being unaware of where one was. Bridget jerked awake and dug an elbow directly into the warm body of a man who, by his familiar scent, she took to be Mark. This not only surprised her—when had he joined her? Why hadn't he awakened her?—but also Mark, who woke with a startled intake of breath and a mild curse.

"Sorry," she said.

"It's all right. You just gave me a start." He'd been sleeping on his stomach, but now propped himself up on his elbows, then rubbed his eyes with one hand. "What time is it?"

It was dark, but the days were still not quite as long as the nights, so it might have been anywhere between six in the evening to six the next morning. "I have no idea."

She got up on her knees and crawled to the head of the bed, where she switched on the small bedside lamp to take a look at the clock on the bedside table. It read that the time was just after twelve, which of course meant midnight. She told Mark. "I guess we needed the sleep," he said, "but now we'll be up all night."

Her stomach suddenly felt cavernously empty. "And we missed dinner."

"I'm surprised Nick didn't come for us." Mark turned around, glancing to the closed door. "Or maybe he did. I'm sure I left the door open."

She was mortified to think Mark's uncle might have seen her at her least impressive, sleeping in undignified positions and drooling onto the duvet. At least she'd been dressed, she thought with a huge measure of relief. She folded her feet under herself to sit cross-legged on the bed, sure that her hair was sticking up at crazy angles. Remembering the list she'd begun pre-napping, she asked in her most guileless of voices, "Did you have any luck with the statements?" 

Mark shook his head, turning over to lie on his side, then rested his head on a folded elbow. "I was so tired and unable to focus that I had Nick take a look, and I left him at it, but he hadn't made any progress at all. Really, it's just a list of transactions, like a spreadsheet or something. Really very ordinary—and extremely authentic-looking."

Bridget was crestfallen. "If you like, I could look at it," she offered humbly.

He smiled half-heartedly. "Sure, why not. Who knows. Maybe you'll see something that Horatio and Camilla, my uncle, the analysts with the police or I couldn't see."

Ignoring his sarcastic tone, she gasped. Given her earlier contemplation, she could hardly believe her luck. "Really?"

He chuckled. 

"Well come on then," she said, rolling off of the bed and heading for the door. "Let's go downstairs."

"Right now?" he asked.

"Why not? We're already up."

"It's the middle of the night, and I'd really rather not."

She pouted. "Do you really think I'll be able to think of anything else until I see it?"

He smiled. "I don't suppose you will." He rose from the bed and she mused that she had never seen him look so disreputably attired in his life, his shirt halfway pulled out of the waistband of his rumpled and twisted trousers, his hair performing incredible acrobatics for how short it was. Frankly, he looked adorable. He combed his fingers through his hair as if sensing it might be in need of taming. "Lead on."

………

Mark watched her face very carefully, and as expected, it went from hopeful anticipation, to puzzlement as her eyes searched the pages, then on to disappointed sadness as her hands (holding the paper) came away from her face. She looked up to him at last, her blue eyes shining, and sighed. "I see now what you mean."

He pulled his lips tight and nodded, though wasn't himself let down, as he hadn't really expected her to be able to make heads or tails of it. "It's all right."

She folded her arms across her chest, staring down as if in deep thought. "No, it's not. Without a doubt it's fraudulent, and someone must be able to detect how it was done. We just aren't looking for—" Suddenly her head snapped up as if a bolt of lightning had struck her in her bottom. "Oh my God."

"What?"

"Can I take these with me?"

"You planning an expedition?" he said with a grin.

She pursed her lips. "I don't mean right now. I mean tomorrow."

His grin vanished, and he said in a rather dark tone, "Bridget…"

"Mark," she said, in a surprisingly equally dark tone, "what you need is a financial analyst-type person looking at this, and it just so happens that I know one."

"What? Who?"

She looked a little too gleeful at him being at a loss, and drew it out by not speaking right away. To be fair, it was the middle of the night, and he had just woken up, but he couldn't think of who she could be referring to that could spot something that even Horatio couldn't. 

At last she smirked. "Head of Futures at Brightlings."

The light came on. Jude. She must have meant Jude.

He reached forward and took her hands in his, but at the same time a familiar panic roiled up in him. He thought of the old saying 'give 'em an inch, they'll take a mile', and figured he'd better nip any thoughts of full-blown investigation in the bud. "You can ask Jude to come over and take a look. I don't want those papers to leave the house. And if she finds anything, _anything_ , we're all going straight to the police."

She somehow managed to look smug and contrite at the same time, and nodded ever so slightly.

"No haring off on your own. No external investigations. I really mean it."

She nodded again, diverting her eyes downward.

"And Bridget?"

She looked up again.

At last he smiled. "Thank you."

"Anything I can do, I will."

He could not suppress a chuckle. "That's what I'm afraid of." He slipped his hand around her waist, planted a kiss on her head, and started to lead her out of the office. "So. It's one in the morning, I'm wide awake, you appear to be as well…"

Her arm went about his waist as they continued walking. "I am. What do you want to do about it?"

"Well. We could play cards," he offered with a straight face.

"Or watch a movie. I'm also _very_ good at board games," she said teasingly, her hand sliding down to cover his back end just before they mounted the stairs to the upper floor. "Or, hm, we could sneak out, escape the eye of the ever-watching media, and forage for food and supplies under cover of darkness."

"Oh. I didn't get a chance to tell you. The reporters have gone." He explained why; she burst out giggling as they reached the landing.

"Tom will be in seventh heaven."

Mark could not suppress another chuckle, then took her into his embrace. For all of his oratorical skill in the courtroom, he was a disaster when it came to expressing his feelings. He thought back to his disastrous first attempt—truly, what man tries to tell a girl how much he likes her by pointing out her flaws?—and sighed. As hard as he might try, he would never be able to convey how much her love and support meant to him when a giant part of who he was remained under fire. Even now he could not find the words.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked after a few moments.

He quietly cleared his throat and said in a low tone, "I'm glad you're here."

She chuckled. "You keep saying that."

 _It keeps being true,_ he thought; when she brought her hands to his face then kissed him, he realised he had also said it aloud.

………

While she felt for the man, having themselves been under intense public scrutiny the past two days, the Tory scandal was a blessing in disguise for Bridget. She had been contemplating how she was going talk to Shaz to discuss the situation under Mark's loving but persistent eye, but now that she might actually be able to leave his house again it would be easier to accomplish. 

When she woke, the sun had risen and Mark had already departed from the bedroom. She sat up, running her fingers through her hair then lazily over the indentation in his pillow, a smile instantly playing upon her lips. They had indeed found a way to tire themselves out, and she was glad for the mutual distraction from their current situation.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," came Mark's gentle voice from the door. He was already dressed and coiffed, and bore a tray with coffee cups and (she hoped) breakfast.

"Is it very late?" she asked, as he sat on the bed. He did in fact have breakfast: scrambled eggs with cheese and mushrooms. It smelled fantastic.

"It's ten, so no, not too late in the morning."

"Oh, good." She took the proffered coffee cup and brought it to her lips. She didn't know how he managed to make such consistently good coffee. "Have the reporters returned?"

He shook his head, bringing his fork to his mouth.

"Excellent, excellent. It will be nice to draw back the curtains and get some light into this place."

She heard him chuckle. "I rang up Jude and she'll be here just before noon. And she wants to know if you want to go to Café Rouge with her afterwards."

"Oh, yes, very much." She loved Mark, loved the amenities his house afforded, but was frankly going a little stir crazy. For a moment she thought she saw disappointment flash in his eyes, so she added, "If you don't mind."

"Don't mind at all," he said without hesitation; she must have imagined it. "I have a meeting with Jeremy at one in my office downstairs to discuss the cases he's taken on for me."

"And, oh, I can go back to my flat too!" she said suddenly, perking at the thought of refreshing her available wardrobe, maybe even grabbing her laptop.

This time he definitely looked disappointed; his eyes shifted to his plate as he scooped up the last of the egg. She instantly knew why and regretted her exclamation.

"Mark?" she queried, and waited for him to raise his eyes to her again; she fixed him with a serious stare before she continued. "I don't mean for good."

He tried to hide it, but he looked relieved. "Of course," he said in an even tone.

She reached out and placed her hand on his knee. "I have every intention of staying here as long as you need me to."

At last he smiled. He held out his hand for her empty plate and loaded them back on the tray. "Well. Probably should get showered and dressed as Jude will be here before you know it."

"And you know how long it takes me to get ready," she teased.

"Hmm," he replied noncommittally.

She could not help but laugh, and leaned forward to kiss him before she rose from the bed and headed for the loo.

………

One thing was true, Nick thought wryly: Mark had certainly developed a finely-honed sense of self-preservation when it came to women. Nick had returned upstairs in search of his errant reading glasses, and had overheard the tail end of their conversation quite by accident. Her willingness to stay with his nephew as long as he wanted her to did bode well for the girl—if she was only after status and prestige, she'd have fled for the hills at the merest whiff of the loss of it. But Nick decided he needed to see her in something closer to her natural habitat—and lunching with her friend might just do the trick.

"Nick," said Mark with surprise as he reappeared into the hallway, his unspoken _what are you doing skulking about up here?_ obvious on his face. Nick held up the reading glasses in answer, and Mark said, "Ah."

"So we have Brightlings' head of investments coming over for a look-see, do we?" Nick asked nonchalantly as they descended the staircase.

"Yes."

"Hope she can help the cause," Nick said.

"As do I," said Mark resignedly.

………

To pass the time until Jude's arrival, Mark decided to immerse himself in work and review the case notes that he would be discussing with Jeremy at one o'clock. Before long, though, his mind had wandered back onto the subject of the allegation by the Peabody technician. He was at a complete loss as to why the man would want to falsely accuse him of such a thing. He'd even thought he and the tech had had something of a friendly rapport, as little as they had spoken.

Someone else must have been behind this. But who? 

He scoffed at the notion of a foreign government conspiring to ruin him over a case he'd won in the past—such as the Aghani or Calabreras cases—because when all was said and done, he really wasn't that big a fish to fry. It couldn't have had anything to do with Calhoun himself because he'd been found not guilty; what possible motive would he have to throw doubt on that verdict? From all accounts, Calhoun had been exceedingly pleased with his defence, even if the victim's family had not. But if _they_ wanted to exact revenge, they'd surely go after Calhoun himself, not his lawyer.

Mark believed with all his heart that Calhoun had been unjustly accused—so, Mark postulated, what if the actual killer of Josie Fairfax had decided to set his sights on Mark? Again, he argued with himself, why? It would have been in that killer's best interest to let sleeping dogs lie, not redirect attention to potentially incorrectly analysed evidence that could lead to the police reopening the case and finding the unknown perpetrator.

None of it made any sense, except there it was, on the brink of ruining his legal career… if he could even salvage it at this point. He buried his face in his hands.

He heard a faint knocking on his office door, and he snapped back to the present. He quickly composed his features. "Come in," he called. He saw Bridget break the plane of the door almost timidly; he couldn't help but smile, for she always behaved as if she were entering a headmaster's office for a dressing-down. She offered a timid smile. Behind her strolled Jude, whose dark hair was pulled back in a very elegant chignon, and who wore a tailored wool suit that very much flattered her figure. He stood.

Jude met his eyes and smiled. "Hello Mark."

"Jude, thank you so much for taking time out of your day to come and take a look at this for me." He indicated the chairs on the other side of the desk. "Please, have a seat."

"Thanks." They both sat, and Mark picked up the manila envelope, slipped the statements out and handed them to her.

Her brows drew together as she examined them, her dark eyes flitting from column to column, down each row, for many tense moments. "Well," she said at last. "I'm not a documents examiner, but I'm pretty confident it's not a doctored document. It's an authentic printout. If we were to go to the bank and ask them for another copy, it would look just like this." This didn't entirely surprise him, since the police had received a copy as well, and he was certain their experts would have spotted a forgery. "But…" she added almost tentatively, "there's something not quite right about the data for the transactions themselves."

Mark felt a spark of hope he hadn't dared feel before. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bridget cover her mouth with her hand. Mark asked, "What's wrong with it?"

She scanned the page again, then sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't quite put my finger on it. Not on such a superficial level."

Ignoring entirely that he had not wanted the papers to leave his possession, he said, "Take the printout, do whatever analyses you need to do."

She nodded curtly as he handed her the manila envelope, slipped it into her attaché. "I'm happy to help, Mark."

"Don't be shy about billing me for your time if you need to. I'm willing to do anything I can to clear my name on this and I want to keep everything above board."

She nodded again.

They all rose at once, and Mark came around the desk intending on shaking her hand, but he was so overcome with gratitude that he accepted a hug instead. "Thank you, Jude."

"Don't thank me yet," she said into his shoulder.

"I have every confidence." He released her and with a smile she retreated from him.

"Jude," came Bridget's quiet voice, "I'll be right behind you in a minute." Jude nodded, then stepped back into the hall.

Bridget's eyes were filled with tears and tenderly he took her into his arms for a reassuring embrace, stroking her hair as she cried what he hoped were happy tears. "It'll be all right," said Mark, and for the first time since this had begun, he believed it might actually be true.

………

Never had the crowd at Café Rouge seemed so animated and talkative, and for that, Bridget was thankful. It allowed Jude, Tom and Shaz to speak with a measure of privacy to her.

Draining the bottom of her wine glass, Sharon said, "I can't stay for lunch, Bridge, but I wanted to give you what I dug up on the murder case, and a little bit on the tech himself." She handed her friend a stack of printouts stapled together. "Name's Henry Wilkins. Apparently straight as an arrow, pure as the driven snow. Not so much as a parking ticket in his whole life. I can't figure what he'd have to gain by this."

"Someone else is behind this," said Bridget darkly. "And once you—" Bridget pointed to Jude. "—can prove that the data is fake, then we can try to shake him down for who it is."

Tom laughed. "'Shake him down'? _Honestly_ , Bridge," he said, still chuckling.

"Well?" she said.

"I thought Mark told you not to investigate," reminded Jude.

"I'm not impeding the police investigation one little bit. In fact, I encourage you to take what you find to the police. But there are things I can do that the police can't."

"You've been watching too much telly, Bridge," said Shaz with a grin, then pulled her handbag onto her shoulder. "Well. I'm off."

As she departed, Jude rose as well, attaché practically glued to her left hand. She hadn't let the thing out of her sight since they'd left Mark's house. "I have a meeting at one-thirty, but I promise you, as soon as I'm done, I'll get to work on this."

"I can't thank you enough," said Bridget, standing to embrace her friend, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.

Jude said, "I'll be in touch." With that she left.

Tom perked at the arrival of their lunch—Jude and Shaz had only stayed long enough for a quick appetizer and a drink—but as she picked at her sandwich and chips, her euphoric state deflated.

"What is it?" asked Tom quietly.

"What if the police don't listen to Jude? What if Jude can't find anything?"

"Don't borrow trouble, love," Tom said, reaching across the table to take her left hand. "When it comes to financial what-all, Jude is a bloody genius. Men, however… that's another story altogether." He grinned, then placed his left hand over their clasped hands to reiterate his support. "Let's make a wager right now. If for some reason Jude is unable to find the fraud here, I will…" He paused to draw a dramatic breath, then lowered his voice, and practically shuddered, "I will voluntarily have sex with a woman."

Bridget burst into joyous laughter, squeezing his hand. "You're on."

"That's more like it," said Tom, smiling. "But to make this a proper wager, if she _is_ able to find the fraud…"

Bridget did her best to appear overly thoughtful. "Well, sex with Mark is out of the question." Tom pouted in an exaggerated fashion. "Sorry. But I'll endeavour to get him into swimming trunks this summer just for you." Unsurprisingly, he brightened once more.

As she resumed eating she became aware of voices nearby that were very familiar. She stopped chewing and swallowed, listening intently to see if she could place it, her attention even more piqued when she heard Mark's name enter the conversation. Surreptitiously she listened in.

"If Darcy did it, he's a fool," came the woman's voice. "And if he didn't, he's forever tainted—as is everything he's ever done!—unless he can prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the charges are baseless."

"I have doubts I'll ever trust him again," came the man's voice. "He's always been so overly eager to win at all costs, and this is the sort of thing that's precisely in line with that philosophy—"

Bridget no longer cared for decorum. She blatantly turned towards the voices, and with a measure of horror saw Horatio and Camilla—from Mark's office!—not five feet away partaking of lunch. Furious, she rose to her feet. Horatio abruptly stopped talking.

"How dare you!" she hissed angrily. "You've worked with Mark for years and _years_ , and for you to even hint that you might believe this ridiculous accusation is appalling!"

Camilla looked wholly embarrassed, but Horatio was obviously angry. "And how dare you eavesdrop, Miss Jones. But I should expect you're used to embarrassing Mark in public by now."

She gritted her teeth, fully cognisant of his reference to the law council dinner, and pulled herself to her full height. "It's hard not to eavesdrop when a fart-arse old windbag like _you_ is practically shouting at top volume." Horatio had gotten even redder in the face and she half-expected to see steam start to pour out of his ears. "When the charge against him is proved _beyond the shadow of a doubt_ to be false," she continued with a pointed glance to Camilla, "then we'll see who's embarrassed."

"Bridget," came Tom's calming voice from behind her. "Please sit down, will you?"

She lifted her chin haughtily then turned on her heel and returned to her table. As her temper cooled, she realised she perhaps should have better kept her anger in check. She had no idea whether or not the press was around and she really didn't want to end up on the front page of the papers.

"Sorry. I couldn't help myself," she said quietly, apologetically.

"Who the hell are those two?"

Bridget explained, then added sadly, "I don't know if I should tell Mark people from his own office think he actually might have done it. It would crush him."

"I think for now, you'd better keep it under wraps," advised Tom. "And let's focus instead on me winning our bet."

Despite everything, she cracked a smile.

Moments later the waiter approached with a champagne cocktail. Bridget was confused. "I didn't order this."

"It's compliments of the man at the bar."

She turned quickly to see a silver-haired man offering her a salute, and she nearly passed out. It was Mark's uncle, and he had undoubtedly seen—and heard—the entire exchange. "Oh my God."

"Who's that? Fwaw! Handsome devil!" Tom mused, sucking his cheeks in.

"Tom, excuse me a moment."

She dashed to the bar to where he was draining the bottom of his scotch glass. "Mr Wentworth. Please. You can't breathe a word of this to Mark. He would be furious with me, and if he knew what those two said…"

"Miss Jones. The drink is merely in appreciation of beating me to the punch in standing up for my nephew."

"Oh."

"I'll see you back at the house, I'm sure. Good day." And with that he took his leave of her.

Bridget returned to her table, slightly stunned.

"Nice arse," muttered Tom, his eyes firmly trained on the retreating Nick.

"That's Mark's uncle," she said darkly.

"Ahh. I thought it looked familiar somehow."

She turned her eyes back to Tom, found herself smiling again. Sometimes she really didn't know what she'd do without him.

"So," he said, indicating the drink Nick had bought for her, "you going to drink that?"

………

The excursion was something of a draw, all in all. Nick knew she had not lost faith in his nephew, and that pleased him immensely. And he was beginning to see the subtle positive effects she'd had on him: the boy used to be wound so tight that a something as simple as a misplaced legal tome would send him (Nick would swear to it) careering towards suicide, but here, in the midst of the biggest crisis of his life, Nick had heard him chuckling with her. He also was much more free about expressing his affection. At one time it would have crippled Mark with embarrassment to kiss his paramour if there was a slightest possibility someone could see; Nick remembered Mark's wedding and how he practically had to be yanked down by the ascot to kiss the bride ( _which_ , Nick thought wryly, _should have been a sign_ ). But since Bridget's arrival the boy had initiated a kiss with her on more than one occasion where he must have been fully aware Nick was nearby.

Yes. Very positive effects, indeed; he'd thought the boy had been far too repressed for far too long. But she wasn't out from under the magnifying glass yet. For one thing, she was going to have to explain to him ( _to them_ , he corrected himself) the handsome man she was with at lunch—more importantly, he wanted to know why she was laughing so gaily, holding hands with him, and taking such obvious comfort in his presence.

………

The reporters were still gone. Bridget sighed in relief as the taxi sidled up to the kerb in front of Mark's. As she popped through the front door, she nearly ran into Magda's husband. "Jeremy! Are you only just leaving?"

He nodded and smiled wearily, as if the meeting was not a meeting so much as a five mile sprint. "Nice as always to see you, Bridget."

"Tell Magda I said 'Hi'," she said, as she closed and locked the door behind him. She set her bag down, thinking she might escape up to the bedroom to read over the things Shazzer had given her. At that moment however Mark emerged from the back of the house, looking equally ragged. "Hello darling," he said quietly. "How was your lunch?"

"Oh, fine," she said, her voice a little higher and more strained than she'd intended.

He didn't seem to notice, and he came closer to her, taking her in his arms. "I'm glad," he murmured into her hair. "I can't wait for this to be over."

"You and me both."

After a moment, he said, "You know, I didn't really get a chance before to ask Jude how she is."

"Oh, she's fine… fine…" Bridget gabbled, hoping she wouldn't mistakenly blurt out about the Horatio/Camilla incident.

A voice behind her asked, "And how about that handsome fellow I saw you with?"

She felt Mark's entire body stiffen and he drew back, his eyes filled with questions, brows furrowed with hurt. But after a split-second moment of disgust (during which any fondness she might have developed for Nick evaporated), Bridget just gave Mark a little wink, then with a broad smile turned to face Nick, who was wearing a supercilious expression. "Oh, do you really think Tom is handsome? He rather thought _you_ had a nice behind."

Mark burst out with a laugh, squeezing her to him. Nick looked nonplussed for the first time in their short acquaintance, then without another word he left the foyer and went to the upper floor.

At least her triumph distracted her from accidentally spilling the beans.

………

The relief that flooded his entire being at the mention of Tom's name was embarrassing in retrospect; Mark did not want to let on how his veins had turned to ice at the mention of Bridget having lunch with a handsome companion after responding so strangely and stiffly to his queries. He never would have admitted to the thoughts racing through his head that involved the bastard Daniel Cleaver, even though logically he knew she wanted nothing more to do with him.

He felt her thumb trace along his brow, heard her quietly say, "Hope your uncle didn't freak you out too much there."

"He and I will have a talk later," he said quietly. With a bob of his head he indicated they should head out of the foyer as well, and went to the sitting room. 

She hopped onto the sofa, looking up to him with a studious expression. "Doesn't look like you had a good meeting."

He was tempted to get a tumbler of scotch before joining her, but reminded himself it wasn't yet three, and it was probably much too early for a drink. "Wasn't bad as meetings go, aside from me not being able to do my own work," he said as he sat, taking her hand. "It was the talking after the meeting that wore me down."

She drew her brows together.

He explained: "It would seem that not everyone in chambers is as confident in my innocence as Jeremy, Rebecca, Giles."

Her entire face fell as the reality of what he said apparently set in. She didn't reply right away, and when she did, she only offered a sad, "I'm sorry." Quickly she then stretched to kiss him, catching him a little off guard in a very pleasant way.

"While I would never be ungrateful for a kiss from my beautiful fiancée," he began as she resumed her seat, "you really have no need to apologise for them."

"But I do," she explained in earnest. "When I see you like this I want to do everything I can to make it better."

He tightened his grasp on her hand, wearily smiling. "You already have." But then he sighed, his shoulders falling as he sunk back into the sofa, his eyes closing, the weight of all that was happening hitting him once more like a ton of bricks.

"Mark?" she asked.

"I feel so bloody useless right now," he admitted, pinching his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "There isn't anything I can do as far as work. I don't particularly care to go out in public and feel like all eyes are upon me, and at the risk of sounding completely fatalistic, I can't plan a defence against a non-existent charge."

"Let's not invite that sort of thing just to occupy you," she scolded. She scooted over close to him to put her arm across his waist and rest her cheek on his shoulder. It felt quite nice to sit in silence with her.

"Feeling sleepy?" she asked after a moment.

His lids were in fact feeling quite heavy and his head felt strangely unsupported by his neck, but he was loathe to admit it. "A man can only take so many naps," he murmured. He was forced to admit defeat, however, as his cheek rested upon the top of her head, his eyes became too heavy to open, and he drifted off amidst pleasant thoughts of the woman in his embrace.

………

As much as she enjoyed sitting with him, all she could think of was getting upstairs and reading what Shaz had given her, which, considering their present circumstance and the fact that Mark needed her consolation more than just about anything else right about now, made her feel very guilty.

Not guilty enough though to slip out from under his serenely napping form and sneak away upstairs with her bag, because right now, she wanted action.

She closed the door slowly, ensuring the doorknob latched, then sprawled upon her stomach with the photocopied sheets. There were about five pages in total; the first was a very small blurb about the technician, Henry Wilkins. Married, two children, lived in Notting Hill— _supervising a forensics lab must pay pretty well_ , she thought. All in all, though, there was very little information about him, but it was probably as much as she could find in the time available. 

The other pages, an overview of the case, was a much more interesting read. The timeline of the crime, the weak alibi presented by Calhoun, the experts who insisted that Calhoun fit the profile of the killer, the general negative opinion held by the public… until the tide was turned by the DNA analysis that seemed to confirm that Calhoun had nothing at all to do with the crime.

And now the very cornerstone of that defence was being called into question.

………

The public had a right to know. They couldn't afford to forget that they couldn't just dismiss the whole bloody mess because some idiotic politician didn't know the meaning of the word 'discretion' and made a more lascivious mess than Mark Darcy had.

So the public had to be reminded.


	4. Chapter 4

Thursday. _(con't.)_

After a refreshing shave and change of clothes, Nick exited his quarters, noting the door to the master bedroom was closed. _Oh, to be young and in love_ , he thought drolly, then decided to head downstairs for a drink. Thoughts of the two of them led him to ruminating once more about Bridget's reply to his query regarding her lunch date. The speedy, unflustered nature of her reply and Mark's hearty chuckle at her response told him loud and clear that this 'Tom' was evidently a known quantity. That was the trouble with modern life, he pined; one could not rely any longer on assumptions of traditional pairings and relationships. He was forced to admit that being caught unawares resulted in a lack of a smart retort which had then precipitated his hasty departure. He realised in hindsight it probably looked like embarrassment; perhaps it was. It had been a long time since anyone had caught him unawares, and he hadn't yet decided how he felt about that.

As he entered the sitting room, he was surprised to find his nephew sacked out on the sofa like a three year old who'd had a particularly tiring time at the playground. He hovered over Mark, poking at his shoulder, startling him awake.

"What's wrong?" Nick asked with a devilish grin. "Did she throw you out of your own room by the ear?"

………

Mark had no idea how long he'd been asleep on the sitting room. He sat up, ran his hand over his mussed hair, feeling very confused for a moment until he got his bearings, then, remembering the earlier question Nick had sprung upon him, he gave Nick a very serious look. "Are you intentionally trying to cause strife between Bridget and myself?"

"For accusing her of booting you out of your bedroom?"

The coy act was not fooling Mark for a moment. "For that extremely accusatory question pertaining to her luncheon companion."

Nick feigned surrender, holding his hands up. "I saw them, I had to know. Can't blame me, can you? Besides. I've made no bones about the fact that I came specifically to meet Bridget."

 _'To judge her' is more like it_ , thought Mark; however, he was struck with a sinking realisation that Nick had in fact been quite straightforward with his intentions from almost the very start. But that would have to wait, because as his senses fully returned it occurred to him that the subject of their conversation was not in fact present. "Where _is_ Bridget?"

"The master bedroom, I would imagine. Door's shut."

He stood, intending on finding her, muttering a quick "thank you" before he climbed the stairs.

………

Shazzer was not answering her mobile, and it occurred to Bridget that it might have been due to the fact that most people were still working and not at liberty to answer their mobiles. She sighed. She needed someone to dig up information on this Wilkins bloke.

And then she was struck with a brainwave: work. She paged through her mobile's address book until she found an entry for "S. M.", let out a little noise of glee as she pushed the button. Listing him as "Sexy Matt" in her address book would have been an invitation for trouble had Mark seen it, when in actuality she simply didn't know her co-worker's last name, just thought of him as "Sexy Matt." If she'd just put "Matt" in the directory, she'd've had no idea who she meant.

It rang a few times before his baritone voice came on the line. "Research."

"Hey, S—Matt, it's Bridget. Don't say it's me, or Finch will get suspicious."

There was a pause before he continued smoothly with, "Of course I'm ready for those figures on the effectiveness of abstinence-only education."

She could not stifle a giggle. "Thanks. Listen, I need a big favour."

"Name it," he said in a low rumble. He was such a darling little whippersnapper.

"I need you to find out as much information as you possibly can about the DNA technician that's accusing my future husband of bribery. I've seen what's publicly been released but I can't believe _anyone_ is that squeaky-clean."

In a slightly louder-than-strictly-necessary voice, he said, "Right, right, fifty-three percent _increase_? Wow." In a more covert tone he asked, "Henry Wilkins, right?"

"Mm-hmm," she affirmed.

"Bridge, love, I'll find out what size _underpants_ he wears for you if you need me to."

Such a little flirt, that Matt. "Much appreciated."

At that moment she heard the doorknob turning, knew it was Mark. "Shit. Have to go." She snapped her phone shut, gathered her papers up, and for a lack of a better place to put them, she folded them in half and shoved them into the waistband of her skirt, pulling her blouse down over them.

She turned to see Mark, and flashed a smile at him, knowing instantly it was the wrong thing to do as he seemed to look even more querulous. "What are you doing up here?"

"Oh, nothing, just got off the phone with… Shazzer." She caught herself before she said 'Jude', which would have led to questions about what Jude might have already discovered in the statements—which, as far as Bridget knew, was nothing. 

It must have been plausible enough because he grinned and instantly relaxed. "You turn your evil sleep mind-beams on me," he said, taking a seat next to her, "then abandon me." He reached to slip his arm about her waist—

Her waist! The papers!

She barely avoided his arm encircling where the papers were as she smoothly bounced up off the bed. "So," she said with false gaiety. "How would you maybe like to go out for a bit, now that things have cooled off?"

He looked confused, even pained.

She continued in the same forced tone, "Maybe a walk? A stroll to my flat and we can have dinner there, a little change in scenery?"

Her mobile started to ring again. Mark was closer to where she'd left it on the bed, and he picked it up for her, looking at the external display. "It's Jude."

"Answer it, answer it!"

He took a breath, flipped the phone open. "Yes, Jude?" A pause. "What are you talking about? Slow down. I can't understand you." Then Bridget's hopes were dashed to less than zero as she watched as his face drain of all colour, his eyes darting to the window. "You're sure?"

"What? _What?!_ "

"Hold on," he said in an overly calm voice, as if he were trying to pacify an axe-murderer, or he were fighting the impulse to _be_ an axe-murderer. "I'll give you to Bridget."

She reached over and grabbed it out of his hand as if she were about save him from a grenade detonation. "Jude, what the _fuck_ —"

"I swear to God, Bridge, it wasn't me. I would never have—"

"What are you talking about?"

Jude went silent before she said, "Like I told Mark: someone's leaked the bank statements to the press."

Suddenly Bridget understood why Mark had gone shockingly white. She felt very faint, sank to the bed, gasping for air.

"You still there?"

"Yeah, uh, shit. When? When did this happen?" She turned her eyes to Mark, who was sitting on the edge of the bed too, his feet planted on the floor, his shoulders hunched forward, looking downwards as if he were attempting to will himself through to the first floor.

"Not an hour ago, I think. Started being blared all over the telly. Oh Jesus, Bridge, Mark's going to think I did this."

She recalled how protective Jude had been over her attaché when they were having pre-lunch drinks. "Are they still in your bag?"

"The statements?" Bridget heard rustling, then a sigh. "Yes. Still in the latched envelope, right where I put them in the middle of _Cosmo_. Snug as a bug in a rug."

"You see, it's okay. There's no way they could have been removed and returned without your knowing. Someone else must have…"

She glanced up to see Mark had vanished. She instantly went silent.

"…Leaked them," finished Jude. "But who?"

Bridget sighed. "Who ever set this into motion in the first place. Jude, Mark's upset. I have to go." That someone had slipped this private document into the hands of the media was one more piece of a puzzle that she wasn't even sure could be completed. She slipped the hidden papers out from under her shirt, tucked them into the back of her diary, and went to see where Mark had slunk off to.

………

The walk in front of the house was once again packed with reporters, and when he flipped the news on the telly the assault had resumed, and this time, Bridget had as much of the spotlight on her as he did—word had evidently gotten out that she worked in television, and there was speculation that she might have leaked the papers herself to further her own career with the scoop to follow. In disgust he switched it off, didn't know what to say or think about any of it.

He knew instinctively that Jude hadn't done it, and he suddenly felt a little guilty that he hadn't reassured her. She was a bit of a flake and at times emotionally vulnerable, but she was fiercely loyal to her friends and, by extension, to him. Jude had really wanted to help.

It begged the question, though, of who _had_ leaked the bank statement to the press. There were a limited number of people who had been allowed to have a copy. The notion that Bridget had leaked it was ludicrous. She hadn't even seen the pages until he showed them to her and she hadn't had the papers in her own possession for a moment. She never ventured into his office unless she had to—something about his office always made her feel claustrophobic—so sneaking in without his knowing and somehow faxing them somewhere was out of the question. 

The police weren't in the habit of drawing the media's attention into interfering with their investigation, and he couldn't imagine anyone from chambers doing something like this. Even if a few of them had privately expressed dismay that the charge of bribery could be true, they would never have shown anything but a united front to the public. Could it have been Henry Wilkins himself?

And then there was Bridget, the quick disconnect of her call and her stiff, forced demeanour culminating in the avoidance of his embrace… what was he to make of that? Who had she been on the phone with? Was she too having doubts she was unwilling to express, staying with him out of obligation?

As he contemplated the situation, Mark retreated to the sanctuary of his office, and for good measure, locked the door behind him.

………

"Have you seen Mark?"

Nick turned from the window in the sitting room to look at Bridget briefly before turning his eyes to the window again. He had passed Mark leaving as he himself came into the room but had no idea where the boy was heading. "Have you taken a look outside? They're back."

Bridget came up near to Nick—she barely came up to his shoulders—and peered out the window as best she could. "Shit," she muttered as she saw the throng of media, then turned her gaze up to him. "So where's Mark gone off to?"

"I presume not out there," he said, arcing a thumb in the direction of the sidewalk.

"You know," Bridget began impatiently, waiting for him to turn back to look to her. She stood with her fists planted firmly on her hips. "I know you don't really like me, and I think you enjoy poking me verbally with a sharp stick, but right now I'm only interested in finding Mark and making sure he's all right. So maybe for the time being at least we can call a truce."

This one was a firecracker for certain, not afraid to be frank. "I heard a door shut. My guess is that he's in his office."

She stood up straight, lifted her chin, nodded in appreciation. "Thank you."

He watched her walk out of the sitting room and into the foyer, heading towards the office with a purposeful stride. He loathed to admit it but he found he'd actually grown to admire her tenacity.

Nick seated himself, grabbed the remote, and turned on the news. It was, after all, wise to know what they were up against. After a few minutes of talking-head chatter—during which they were trying to blame Bridget herself for this latest development, something he considered ridiculous having witnessed her devotion to Mark firsthand—he turned it off again, having seen quite enough. He decided to occupy himself instead with something considerably more constructive: dinner preparation.

………

Bridget hovered just outside Mark's office door, pressing her ear very closely. She couldn't hear a thing, and she wondered what he could be doing in there. She tried the knob; to her surprise, it was locked. Quietly she knocked. When there was no response, she knocked more firmly then called his name.

She heard the lock turn, then the door swung inward. He desperately looked in need of comfort and she was baffled why he would have resisted seeking her out for some. "Did you want something, Bridget?" he asked wearily, leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest.

"I wanted to see you," she replied, puzzled. "And I wanted you to know that Jude had nothing to do with this."

He nodded. "I know she didn't. And I know you didn't either."

" _Me?_ "

"That's what the press is saying, that you did this in order to get an exclusive out of this."

She could only blink a few times, her mouth slightly agape with horror, before she regained control of her senses. "I would never in a million years…"

"I know."

They stood there for many silent moments, regarding one another, before she reached up and placed her fingertips on his forearm. "This is a horrible nightmare. I wish I could make it all go away."

"As do I," he said softly, breaking her gaze, looking down but otherwise not moving.

She wondered why he seemed so resistant to initiate an embrace. She pulled his arms down and away from his body and tightly wrapped her arms around him, her cheek pressed against the cotton of his shirt. She felt one hand cradle the back of her head, the other around her waist, squeezing her close and holding her against him like he might not let go. She hoped and prayed that Jude would phone soon with good news.

She turned to look up at him and was taken aback by the intense concentration on his face: eyes closed, brows knit. Swiftly she raised on tiptoes, raised a hand to the nape of his neck and pressed her lips to his, holding him to her until he yielded and responded with his usual fire.

When she finally released him, she smiled at him tenderly. He looked a little less peaked, had a bit more sparkle back in his eyes. "Everything will be fine, you'll see," she said quietly.

"Because you say so?" he asked, just this side of teasing.

"Because I _know_ so," she said matter-of-factly. "And I'm always right."

He couldn't contain a chuckle.

She ran a fingertip down the length of his nose, then placed it on his lips, which he kissed. "Do you believe me?" she asked very seriously.

His eyes had never seemed more soulful or penetrating, and for Mark that was quite a feat. Then slowly a smile crept across his face. "Yes."

………

Whatever else was going on in his life right now, Mark told himself, he could not start to doubt Bridget. There must have been another explanation for her earlier erratic behaviour. Perhaps she had taken his statement about napping to heart, and was trying to find something else for them to do.

Going for a walk now was out of the question, unfortunately.

"Good," she replied. "You should believe me." She smirked then broke away from his embrace, taking his hand. "So I suppose we're under lockdown again?"

He nodded.

"I guess we'll not be going to my flat for dinner, then."

He heard the sound of a quiet clearing of a throat behind him, and turned quickly to see his uncle was there. That man must have practised stealth in his spare time. "I've started dinner. It'll be ready in about thirty minutes. We'll eat down in the kitchen if it's all the same to you."

Mark was so stunned that his uncle had cooked for them that he could only nod.

"Thank you," came Bridget's equally stunned voice.

Nick gave a curt nod before heading back to the stairs and descending to the kitchen.

Mark turned back to his fiancée, who still bore an expression of slight wonder. "That was really kind of him."

Mark chuckled. "He's not Beelzebub Incarnate, you know." He reached and slipped an arm around her waist as they walked towards the kitchen. "Let's go set the table."

………

"Hey, Charlie, it's Jude Russell."

"Jude, hello! What's up?"

"I'm working on something and I need your help."

"Oh?"

She shifted her phone from one ear to the other, skimmed the columns once more. "I'm looking at some financial transactions for a client at your bank, and need reminding what the seventh through ninth characters in the transaction number means."

"Certainly. Position seven is for transaction type: 'D' for debit, 'C' for credit; then number eight's for codes for the source, like transfers between accounts by the same account holder, from a domestic or a foreign bank, or what have you. Then nine is method: cash, cheque, electronic funds transfer… I'm sure there's more to the list but I can't remember them all."

Jude grinned madly. This was exactly what she had not previously been able to put her finger on. Even though she was sure she already knew the answer, she wanted to be certain, so she asked, "So what would 'DIC' represent?"

"Let's see. Debit; transfer to a domestic bank; cheque."

She'd cracked it, and she grinned. "Charlie, I am, no pun intended, in your debt. Thank you."

There was silence for a moment as he seemed to come to a realisation. "Jude. This is for Mark Darcy, isn't it?"

"As a matter of fact, it is," she said seriously, "but I'll thank you to keep this under your hat."

"Well, of course," he said, clearing his throat. "Good night."

She hung up then immediately dialed Bridget's mobile. Strange; no answer. She left a message to phone her at once.

………

"I didn't have much to work with. Mark's kitchen isn't that well-stocked."

Bridget looked down to the meal she'd been given. If this was what Nick could achieve with a poorly stocked kitchen, she wondered what he might create otherwise. On the plate before her was a strip of beef steak (cooked to perfection, just the right shade of pink inside, with a thick crust of salt and ground pepper) and a side dish of green beans, mushrooms and wild rice that had been salted and buttered. She sliced off a strip of the beef, brought it to her mouth. It was tender and delicious.

" _Wow_ ," she said as she chewed, then swallowed. She caught Mark smirking as he looked down to his plate. "This is amazing." She moved on to taste the wild rice mixture. Heavenly.

Mark agreed. "Quite delicious, Nick. Thank you very much for cooking."

"Yes, thanks again," said Bridget.

He made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Just promise me we'll find a way to get some more food, or we'll starve before long."

"There's always cannibalism," quipped Bridget, "but I think I'd be gamier than I look." She saw Mark hide his laugh behind his serviette.

Immediately she regretted saying it; she was supposed to be impressing Mark's uncle, not making crude, tasteless jokes. Her eyes flashed to Uncle Nick, who merely regarded her for a moment with a strange look on his face.

That was when the impossible happened: he laughed. And he wasn't laughing _at_ her; he was laughing because he was amused, confirmed by his subsequent comment: "And I'd be all gristle." He turned his steely eyes to Mark. "Now, Mark… we _might_ get a good meal or two out of him."

She could not help but laugh. Maybe the man wasn't Beelzebub, after all.

Mark looked like he didn't know what to make of the current thread of conversation, or perhaps he was a little terrified at the thought of the two of them joining forces.

She continued eating with a smile still playing upon her lips. She sipped her burgundy wine, regarded Mark at the head of the table, and thought there might only one thing that would make her happier: Jude phoning to say she'd found the fraud. 

"Oh!" said Bridget suddenly, dropping her hands to the table, her utensils clinking against the plate.

"What is it?" asked Mark.

"I left my mobile upstairs. If Jude calls…"

"Darling, I'd be surprised if she called so soon."

She sighed. Mark was probably right.

He touched his napkin to his mouth, then set it down beside his the plate. "If it would make you feel better, I'll go upstairs and get it for you while you finish eating," he said.

She grinned. "Thank you."

He rose from the table, kissed the top of her head in passing, then disappeared up the stairs.

The kitchen filled with silence as Bridget and Nick finished clearing their plates. Nick brought his napkin to his mouth in precisely the same manner as Mark had; inwardly she smiled. Indeed these men were related. He then rose and dug into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a lighter and a box of Benson & Hedges.

The moment her eyes lit on the box, a craving she didn't even know she had for a cig shot through the roof. She'd practically quit for Mark's sake, but every now and again the desire for one overtook her and she'd have one on the sly. She hadn't brought any with her in the dash from her flat, and after all of the stress of the past two days, she felt a strong desire for a smoke.

Nick furrowed his brow as he caught her staring, and he pointed the cigarette between his two forefingers in her direction. Clearly misunderstanding her gawking for disapproval, he said, "I can smoke if I bloody well please."

"Actually," Bridget said, pulling her lower lip between her teeth, darting her eyes to ensure Mark wasn't somehow already on his way back down, "I was just thinking how much I'd love a fag."

His eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise, which Bridget thought astounding considering she'd made the man laugh not ten minutes ago. _Miracles can occur in pairs_ , she thought. 

"You can have one if you like," he said, offering the one he had not yet lit.

Reluctantly, she shook her head. "I'd better not. He'll smell it on me and then I'd be sunk for sure. I promised to quit."

He drew the proffered fag back towards himself, a very small smirk barely readable on his face. "If Mark asks, I'm stepping out for a smoke." He departed the kitchen, passed through the small sitting area, punched some numbers into the auxiliary alarm keypad, then exited through the French doors, quickly passing out of sight behind the drawn blinds.

Moments later, she heard footsteps on the stairs from the upper floor, and Mark came in looking agitated. She stood, questioning him with her expression only. Rather than explaining, he simply handed her the mobile. It indicated there was a missed call—and voice mail—from Jude.

She flipped the phone open, punched the button to retrieve the voice mail. "Bridge, have astoundingly good news. Call me the minute you get this."

Bridget looked up to Mark, who was watching her with eagle eyes. When she beamed a smile at him, he looked visibly relieved. "She has good news," Bridget added to cement his optimism, then she pressed Jude's speed dial number, put it on speakerphone so that Mark could hear as well.

"Bridge!" said Jude by way of greeting.

"We're both here," she explained. "So what did you find?"

"Well. I studied the transaction codes, which are encoded with the date and type among other things. I called Charlie to confirm—"

"Who's Charlie?"

"Head of the bank. We're on excellent terms. Anyway, he confirmed to me what some of the codes mean and the encoded transaction number on the transaction in question does not match the explanation in plain English in the next column over."

"What do you mean?" asked Mark.

"Well, the date is right, but the transaction code suggests it was a debit, a check written to another local bank, while the plain English explanation says it was a credit, an electronic funds transfer from a foreign bank."

Mark took a moment to digest this information before he asked, "Were there any other errors on any other transactions?"

"Nope. Double- and triple-checked them all myself. This is the only one that doesn't match."

"Oh my God," said Bridget, turning to Mark, who finally seemed to believe it might actually be the proof he needed to end this dark nightmare. "Jude, you are a goddess among us."

Mark spoke up again. "I've got DI Kirby's card. If you could kindly call him and tell him what you've found, I would be eternally grateful. Well." He cleared his throat. "More so than I already am."

There was an unmistakable chuckle from the mobile. "I'm ready with a pen and paper."

"Give me a moment. I left it on my desk." He shot upstairs for his office; Bridget picked up the phone, switching off of speakerphone.

"So how's everything going?" asked Jude.

"I'm a little frustrated. Can't leave the house. Have you talked to Shaz? Has she found anything else?"

Jude offered a light laugh. "I haven't, but then again, I think you probably have all you're going to get from her. She's not exactly a high ranking Greg-Palast-type there, doesn't have access to much at the paper but the archives."

Bridget sighed. "I'm going mental waiting for Matt to ring back—he's got some wicked resources and he's looking into this for—oooh." She heard Mark's footfalls on the stairs, said in a quieter tone, "Mark's back." 

Mark appeared, flush with the effort of sprinting, then handed her the card, and she read out the detective inspector's phone number and precinct address for Jude. She then absently stuffed it into her jeans pocket.

"Got it. Thanks," Jude said. "I'll be happy to call as soon as we disconnect. And tell Mark it's the least I could do, really."

"I will. Good night, Jude," said Bridget. "And thanks again." She snapped the phone shut and set it down, then turned to Mark and conveyed Jude's words.

Bridget would have thought he'd be more outwardly excited by this, but then again, Mark Darcy would always be the epitome of composure. He simply took her into his arms, held her tight, and pressed a kiss into her temple. "Oh, Bridget," was all he said, his voice barely audible.

………

Between draws on his cigarette, Nick took in a deep lungful of evening air. The sun had yet to fully set but it was dusky and cool, and the fresh air felt magnificent. He pondered the events of the day—the complication with the public revelation of the bank statements and the spectacle in Café Rouge at the forefront of his mind—and while not much actual progress had been made in getting his nephew out of this damnable quandary, he had gotten a huge insight into Mark's relationship with Bridget.

She was as different from Mark's first wife as night was from day. From the outset it was clear she loved him, and he loved her, though Nick couldn't imagine what they had in common, and wondered about the circumstances of their first meeting. She seemed to work very studiously to keep him from falling into the quagmire of his own thoughts… which Nick knew firsthand was a Sisyphean task. He recalled overhearing the tail-end of the conversation after she'd drawn him out of his office—no doubt wallowing in some kind of self-pity; he'd seen the expression on the boy's face when he departed the sitting room for his office—and Mark had actually _chuckled_.

The frequency with which he adopted a fatherly, protective tone with her surprised Nick; he had never heard Mark speak to his ex-wife that way, nor to any girlfriend he'd had the opportunity to get to know on his infrequent visits back to England. It also amused him greatly, because those previous partners had always been rather bossy and overbearing, and he couldn't have imagined Mark taking that tone with them without them laughing back at him, while Bridget seemed genuinely hurt by the scolding.

She really seemed to have a special kind of magic when it came to Mark. The way he was constantly touching her in some manner, the kisses he placed upon her forehead, the embraces he drew her into, was quite astounding to see considering it was his nephew and indicated a tenderness of the heart well beyond a short-term fling. However, he still wanted to know more about the girl, her family and her background. And he wanted to ensure that Mark's regard for the girl went beyond a novelty factor.

He dropped the butt end of the cigarette onto the paving stone and stepped on it to extinguish it, then picked it up to dispose of it properly. When he reentered the house, he reset the alarm then crossed through to the kitchen, where Mark was pouring each of them another glass of wine. Bridget looked beamingly happy as she sipped from her own glass.

"Have I interrupted something?"

"Not at all," said Mark; Nick noted he was smiling yet again. Uncanny, that. "We've just had some very good news. Bridget's friend has uncovered the fraud and is talking to the police."

Nick retrieved his glass and raised it in a toast as he cracked a faint smile. "Excellent news, indeed."

………

Most distressing news, indeed.

He set the receiver down, brought steepled fingers to his chin. Who could have foreseen that Darcy's fiancée would have a friend who was such a powerhouse in financial circles?

Well. Though intended for strengthening the case for bribery and not to clean up after sloppy records tampering, this contingency could easily be dealt with. He'd have a few words regarding that with Dawkins.

On to the work at hand. He picked up the phone and dialed. "Wilkins. Your services are needed once again."

………

Mark watched in slight amazement as his uncle emptied his glass in one go, then set it down. "And now I think it's time to retire to the sitting room with the crossword puzzle… presuming the paper wasn't intercepted by the press."

Mark grinned. "No, I believe it's in the foyer, waiting for you."

As Nick left the kitchen for the upper floor, Bridget's mobile rang again. Her eyes flashed to the phone, and with a slight scowl on her face she picked it up. "Yes?" she asked, then there was a pause during which the line of her face smoothed out again. "Oh, okay. Thanks. Talk to you tomorrow. Bye."

"That was Jude," said Bridget, closing her phone, but she was still smiling, so Mark fought to untangle the knot that was threatening to form in his stomach. "She caught DI Kirby on his way to a murder scene, but she's got an appointment to see him in the morning."

Mark smiled, then drained his wineglass and set it on the counter next to Nick's. "I'd take you out for dessert but I think I'd rather wait until I don't have a lynch mob hot on my heels."

"We can have some biscuits and coffee here."

"Presuming I have biscuits. To hear Nick tell it, I'm practically Old Mother Hubbard."

Bridget laughed. "Can we take his word for it? He seems to be the only one able to navigate this puzzling wall of stainless steel." Mark laughed too, then took her in his arms and kissed her.

"What was that for?"

"Spontaneous display of affection. Something you claim to crave." 

She smiled, touched a fingertip to his nose again. "Now how about something else I'm craving: a spontaneous display of chocolate chip biscuits!" And with that she danced off to the cupboard, opened the door, to reveal… a washing machine. She laughed again as she proceeded to the next door (canned foods) and then the next, where she did indeed find not only biscuits, but double chocolate biscuits. She grabbed the packet, held them over her head as if she had just scored the winning goal at the World Cup and spun in circles.

He laughed again. She truly was the light of his life.

………

Bridget felt lighter than air as she twirled through Mark's kitchen with the chocolate biscuits, as he navigated to the range to put the kettle on, then to counter for the coffee beans and the grinder. "Do me a favour," he asked, not looking up from measuring out the beans. "See if Nick wants some coffee."

She nodded and smiled. The old bugger was starting to grow on her a little. She climbed up the stairs and as she padded across the hardwood floor, she heard Nick's distinct voice carry out into the foyer.

"Elaine. It's your brother."

And then, surprisingly, she heard Mark's mother's voice:

"Nicholas! How is Mark?" 

Bridget realised he must have had her on the speakerphone in the sitting room.

"He's fine. In fact, there's been a development that I think will end this whole ordeal." She heard the rustle of the newspaper.

Bridget heard Elaine sigh. "Oh, Nick, that's wonderful news."

"Yes, indeed. There's rather a celebratory mood around here this evening."

Nick sounded positively effusive to Bridget.

"Is there someone else there with you?" queried Elaine.

"Mark's in the kitchen with Bridget."

"Oh!" Elaine's voice brightened considerably; Bridget smiled. "Then he's more than fine."

Nick paused before continuing. "So you know Bridget well?"

"I've known her since she was a little girl. Her mother is one of my oldest friends."

"And how about her father?"

Bridget bristled a bit. This was turning into a bloody background check.

"Oh, Colin. He's a darling man. Used to be an accountant or similar. Retired now. Both her parents live here in Grafton Underwood. They'll be devastated when they hear about what's happened to Mark. They're on holiday—"

"I'm sure they will be," he said impatiently. "Elaine. I know you said you like Bridget. But tell me in truth: do you _approve_ of the engagement?"

"Oh, _Nick_ ," Elaine began. Bridget's held her breath, but she needn't have worried; Elaine then chuckled. "I'm _thrilled_. In fact, it was her mother, our friend Una and myself who did our damndest to get them together."

She heard Nick cough, perhaps choking on a drink; she idly recalled the old adage warning against mixing grape with grain. She was too full of adoration for Mark's mother to care too much for his hangover the next day, though. "Really? That's… reassuring. Well. I had best be off."

Bridget took a step away from the door then called out, "Mr Wentworth? Do you want some coffee?"

"Oh!" came Elaine's voice. "Is that Bridget? I'd like to say a few words to her."

"In here," replied Nick.

She appeared at the door, hoped her very best angelic expression was in place. "Hello, Mrs Darcy."

"Bridget, my dear. I've told you a hundred times to call me Elaine. I'm terribly glad you're there with Mark. Nick tells me that Mark is much improved after getting some good news."

"Yes. He's fantastic. He's making coffee, wanted me to see if your brother wanted any."

"I'll pass," Nick replied in a tone that was astonishingly hard to interpret.

"I do hope you two are getting along," came Elaine's light yet stern voice. Bridget wondered if she felt his tone was unfriendly; she would know best of all. "After all, you'll soon be family."

Bridget turned her eyes to Nick and offered a smile. Nick returned the gaze and did not, merely studied her with an intensity in his eyes that would have been unnerving if she hadn't seen the same look in Mark's on so many occasions. "Yes, of course we are, Elaine," he said in that same neutral tone.

"Yes," reiterated Bridget. She struggled to keep her smile from fading.

They could hear a faint voice in the background before Elaine said, "Oh, Malcolm's calling for me and I must go before he destroys my kitchen. Please send my love to Mark."

Simultaneously they said, "Of course." Bridget looked to Nick again; he at least looked amused this time.

"Good night," said Nick.

Elaine disconnected and Nick pressed the button to turn the speakerphone off. Nick leaned back with his newspaper and pen, a tell-tale tumbler at his side on the table, the barest hint of amber liquid at its bottom.

She started to back towards the foyer. "Well. I'd better go let Mark know. About the coffee."

Nick nodded, already scratching answers onto the newsprint. She turned away to leave when he added, "You should feel free to call me Nick."

She turned back. He looked as if he hadn't spoken at all, and she smirked. "Okay, Nick. And it's Bridget, all right?"

"Hmm," he mumbled, raising his eyes to her for a second before lowering them again. "If you insist."

………

It was a simple enough question, and presumably a short enough answer, but the coffee was nearly finished steeping and she still hadn't come back downstairs. Mark rose from the stool he'd occupied, intending on popping up the stairs to see what was taking so long when Bridget's mobile began to trill from the kitchen table. Instead he strode over to pick it up to look at the incoming caller display; he figured if it were Sharon or Jude he would answer it for her.

Instead the display read a baffling "S. M." He had no idea who that might be, so, furrow still in place upon his brow, he returned the phone to where it had been laying. After a few rings it stopped, and a familiar little noise advised him that the caller had left a voice message.

"Coffee ready yet?" 

Mark turned to see Bridget had returned. "I was beginning to wonder what had happened to you."

"Ah. Well, your uncle was on the phone with your mum and I talked to her for a little bit too. He has a weird habit of talking on speakerphone."

Mark grinned. "Think he's been to one too many conference call meetings." He picked up her phone again and handed it to her. "It rang while you were upstairs. Who's 'S. M.'?"

"Oh." Her tone was innocent enough but the way she tinted pink piqued his curiosity. "That's… someone from work. Probably wondering how I am, when I'll be back. You know."

"She left you a message, if you want to listen."

Bridget stared at her phone as if it were an unexploded ordnance. "Not now," she said decisively, then turned and set it on the counter. She turned back to him with a full smile, leaning on the polished granite countertops in a jaunty way. "We have a coffee and biscuit date, if I recall correctly. Far more pressing an engagement."

He smiled, shaking off the residual uneasiness, reminding himself of his earlier self-remonstration. "Yes indeed." He turned and pressed the plunger down on the French press while Bridget went to find the milk and sugar. He watched her doctor her coffee, tremendous concentration apparent on her countenance, lower lip caught between her teeth. She raised the cup and sipped, then looked disappointed.

"Too strong?"

"No. Perfect strength." She set it down and sighed. "I just don't understand how you can make my coffee for me better than I can."

Once more a laugh erupted from him before he could stop it. He went to her, embraced her then kissed her quickly on the lips. 

"Are you laughing at me?" she asked with a pout.

"I would never do such a thing," he said with a smile, his hands trailing around her waist as he stepped away and picked up her coffee. "I'll see if I can fix it for you."

He tasted it—far too sweet and light for his taste—and knew instantly she'd added too much milk and sugar, so he added a bit more coffee, stirred it then presented it to her. She took it and sipped it, then looked grim.

"What?"

"It's perfect," she said sadly.

He did love that about her, the fact that a laugh was so easily forthcoming when he was with her, despite whatever else was happening. She never failed to charm him, delight him, frustrate him, excite him… and he'd have it no other way.

………

As they took their coffee and biscuits to the kitchen table, Bridget reflected on how narrow an escape it had been, Mark seeing Sexy Matt's incoming call. She damned her traitorous skin for almost giving the game away. She hadn't exactly lied about who Matt was and it wasn't her fault that Mark had assumed it to be a woman; though she should have corrected the misapprehension, she didn't want to cause unnecessary strife explaining that another man was phoning her on her mobile at nearly nine at night.

They were through with their coffee and biscuits in very short order, which was a blessing, as she was becoming increasingly distracted by the touch of his fingertips brushing lazily along her forearm as they sat beside each other. It frankly astounded her how often they still had sex; after over a year together (not counting the stupid break), she would have expected it to dwindle to maybe once every week, maybe two, judging by what her partnered friends had told her in the past. Not that she was complaining, of course. He had proven to be quite a pleasant surprise in that department.

Shortly after the last of the biscuits had been nibbled up, when he asked her if she was interested in retiring for the night, she agreed wholeheartedly, if a little too eagerly. She faintly remembered Uncle Nick calling "good night" to them as they passed through the foyer on their way upstairs to the bedroom.

………

Nick almost laughed out loud when he filled in the very last of the crossword squares:

 _Concupiscence_.

He hadn't had a reply when he'd bid them good evening, and it hadn't surprised him. He wasn't so old and cynical that he didn't remember the days when he'd been so focused on the girl he was with he didn't hear or see anything else but her.

Before he headed upstairs he decided to take a look out the window. The reporters had departed for the night, and with any luck, wouldn't be back in the morning; he could take a walk to Holland Park for some fresh air, maybe even borrow Mark's car and drive out to visit Elaine and Malcolm.

Silently he crept up the stairs. As expected the master bedroom's door was closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Greg Palast](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greg_Palast) is a _New YorkTimes_ -bestselling author and a journalist for the British Broadcasting Corporation as well as the British newspaper _The Observer_ , e.g. among others. (Courtesy of Wikipedia).
> 
> ["Old Mother Hubbard"](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Mother_Hubbard) is an old nursery rhyme. For those not familiar with it, it begins (courtesy of Wikipedia):
> 
> _Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard,_   
>  _To fetch her poor dog a bone._   
>  _But when she got there, her cupboard was bare,_   
>  _so then the poor dog had none._


	5. Chapter 5

Friday.

There were good things and bad things about not doing one's nightly routine before bed. When it came to brushing teeth and combing hair, carefully washing the makeup off before changing into night clothes and making pointless small talk to fill the silence until slipping beneath the sheets, it all seemed so… routine. Dull. English. There was something exciting and wonderful about being literally pounced upon the moment the bedroom door latched shut, clothes stripped off in haste and tossed hither and yon, and being ravished repeatedly until the wee hours. It made her feel as if she were doing something forbidden, like maybe she was twenty-three again and this was her first night with him after months of unresolved sexual tension.

But honestly, Bridget hated the way her teeth felt if she didn't brush them at night, nor was her hair particularly cooperative the next day if it wasn't combed out before heading to Bedfordshire. Sleeping in her makeup usually made her break out like she was a teenager again, and she always cursed at herself for doing it.

Weighing boredom against dental- and coiffure-related morning-after regrets, it was a tough call.

As she laid there staring at the ceiling, debating a quick trip to the loo to take care of her undoubted dragon breath and Alice Cooper eyes, she felt Mark's soft fingers slip across her abdomen and curl around her hip. "Good morning," he muttered. She looked to him. He had his right cheek pressed into his pillow as he lie prone and looked for all the world as if he were fast asleep.

She turned to face him, then snuggled up against him. His arm encircled the small of her back and he kissed the tip of her nose with amazing accuracy, considering his eyes were still closed.

"How did you even know I was awake?"

"You should know better than anyone not to doubt the amazing power of thought vibes."

She giggled lightly, then reached forward to place a small kiss on the indentation in his chin, wondering if it might be all right to stay like this for the rest of the day.

Maybe even the rest of her life.

"Wonder what time it is," she said idly as she rested her cheek upon his pillow again, thinking primarily of Jude's appointment with DI Kirby.

"Don't care," Mark replied drowsily, tightening his embrace, still not opening his eyes.

She smiled, running her hand along his shoulder, her nose brushing against his. "This is a big change for you, Mark Darcy."

"It's all about perspective," he said. " _This_ is very important, you know."

"I'll remind you of that in future when you're trying to prise me out of bed to go to work," she said, planting a kiss in the corner of his mouth.

She felt his chest move with silent laughter before he said, "Oh, I've no doubt."

"But," she said, suddenly remembering Sexy Matt's message on her phone, "we probably ought to get up soon."

"Not yet," he mumbled.

Smirking, she raked her nails up along his shoulder, then down over his hairline and sideburn as he apparently drifted back into to sleep. She should have known better, should have known that he was more awake than he was letting on, for in a flash he raised his head and kissed her deeply on the mouth, hands moving over her body and turning her so that she was beneath him.

Not only had he made a compelling case for a lack of prep before bedtime, but for staying in bed the remainder of her years.

………

Last to turn in, first to rise and shine.

This didn't surprise Nick, either, even though it was nearing noon.

After preparing a full pot of coffee, he thought he might turn on the news, see if the latest development had hit the media as of yet. The reporters were back on the front walk like chickens waiting for their feed at the barn door; it was entirely possible that it was too soon for the story to have leaked out. Surely the police would want to verify what Bridget's friend had discovered the day before. If it were on the news it would likely be just breaking.

The news presenter was in fact describing a brand new development, but not the one he'd expected to hear about. As he listened, he debated internally whether or not he should disturb Mark. Might as well let the boy have a pleasant sleep-in before being thrust back into the middle of a scandal that continued to mutate and grow in unexpected and horrible ways.

………

It was the end of the business week at last, probably the longest week in the history of the firm, and Rebecca was immensely thankful for it as she nudged open Mark's office door and switched on the light, pushing down an uncomfortable lump in her stomach. She had just spoken to Jeremy, who had rung her up and asked her to look in Mark's office for a missing deposition in the case he'd taken over for his partner.

At least her search was a short one. The deposition in question was right on top of Mark's blotter. However, there was also a file open on Mark's desk that she was certain had not been out the day the bank statements were delivered.

The file pertained to the Calhoun case and the laboratory work done by Peabody Labs. Carefully she thumbed through the file, which seemed intact though disheveled, thought it was curious that the file should be out at all, and wondered who had been poking around in Mark's files. Rebecca took a moment to square the papers, then crouched at the file cabinet to return the file to where it belonged, making sure this time that it locked.

When she stood she realised she was no longer alone in the room. And she smiled, for suddenly the file being out made sense. "Oh, hi. Have you been put back on the case?" Rebecca asked lightly.

"Yes," came the slow reply. "I was just taking a look last night to see if there was anything we'd missed. Coming in this morning, I'd realised I'd forgotten to put the file away."

"No need. I've taken care of it." She smiled once more. "It's so nice of you to keep helping Mark."

"Least I can do."

"Well, guess I should get this to Jeremy. He's waiting for me at court."

"Right."

Rebecca followed the barrister out of the room, shutting then locking the door behind her.

………

"Mark."

No sooner had he emerged from his bedroom in pursuit of coffee and possibly something to eat did he hear his name. It was Nick, and from the unsettled look on his uncle's face, Mark felt like he'd been unexpectedly plunged into a tank of icy water.

"What's wrong?" he said in a quiet voice so not to wake Bridget, wondering how long Nick had been lying in wait.

"It would seem your good news has been pre-empted." Nick tilted his head towards the stairs. They descended together.

Mark felt relief wash over him. "Don't think I told you. Bridget's friend Jude couldn't get in to talk to DI Kirby until this morning due to another murder case."

"Won't matter now."

The cold settled in the pit of his stomach this time. "What? Why not?"

"Peabody Labs has issued a statement declaring that their records indicate they charged your law firm £5,000 to test the sample in the Calhoun case."

Mark's head began to spin. He knew for a fact that they'd paid £7,500 to have the work done. The figure had stuck with him because it had been his first real encounter with forensic testing. The cost of testing had been slightly elevated due to the rush that had been placed on it and the small amount of the available sample. He also remembered even now how small a price it was to pay to secure an acquittal for his client. "So… the implication is that they're reporting a discrepancy exactly equal to the amount Wilkins reportedly was paid to falsify the results."

"'Implication', nothing. They're coming right out and saying it."

Mark brought his hand to his face. "Christ," he said. It would hardly matter now what Jude had found. The circumstantial evidence that was adding up against him would relegate her discovery to mere human error during data entry.

He felt his uncle's hand on his shoulder, was immediately grateful for the show of support.

………

When next Bridget opened her eyes she was alone. She smiled sleepily then turned over to embrace Mark's pillow, which still smelled like him. He'd probably gone to get coffee. With every passing minute, she laid there and reflected on the evening they'd just had, that it was little wonder it was taking him so long. _He was probably having trouble walking_ , she thought with a smirk.

There was a curt knock at the door, which startled her out of her lovely dreamlike state; Mark would hardly knock on his own bedroom door, and there was only one other person in the house. "One moment," she called. She rose but couldn't find Mark's robe, so she quickly dressed in a too-large set of Mark's pyjamas that he'd laid out some time last evening but hadn't used. She felt an unwelcome flood of foreboding through to the very core of her being.

It was Uncle Nick, and he looked quite dismal.

"Bridget," he said quietly.

"What's happened?" she asked, quelling the panic she felt, wrapping her arms about her own waist. "Where's Mark?"

"He's down in the kitchen, having some coffee and composing himself."

"Why?"

He then told her the news, about how the lab was claiming to have received less than the firm paid. Her elated feelings of the evening before and this morning came crashing down.

"I thought," he said in conclusion, "you might want to go and… _comfort_ him." She stared at Nick, not sure what to make of his statement or the emphasis within. He then handed her the mobile she'd left downstairs. "This has also rung at least three times. You might want to see what 'S. M.' wants."

She was momentarily stunned into speechlessness. "Thank you. I'll be down in a few minutes."

She retreated into the room, closed the door and flipped her phone open, dialing Sexy Matt.

"Bridget. I've been trying to call you since last night."

"Yeah, sorry. We were having a happy little celebration. Bit premature, it would seem."

"Heard about that development. Sorry. Anyway, I think I may have found something interesting on our technician."

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmmm. I really had to dig for this one, but our Henry Wilkins was also briefly known as H. L. Dawkins."

"Oh?" she asked breathlessly. "Briefly?"

"Yeah. _Six months_ briefly at the earliest possible age. And in those six months H. L. Dawkins managed to build a more of a history than Henry."

"Like what?"

"Let's just say he has relatives in interesting places—as in, 'the head of the bank that the statements were from' interesting."

" _Really?_ " she said, perking. She wondered if Jude had any idea her friend was connected to Mark's accuser in this way. "What else?"

"That's all I have for now. I'm going to go troll the archives and see what I can dig up."

"Matt, you are an angel."

He chuckled in that low, throaty, sexy way he had; if not for Mark she'd be awfully tempted. "I'll call you later if I find more."

"No, I'll call _you_ ; I may not be available to answer my phone. Bye."

She closed her phone, then headed for the kitchen, practising her very best somber face. The last thing she wanted Mark doing was asking her why she looked so happy when they'd only just heard that the source of the bribe had apparently been found, because she'd have to make up some ridiculous story to avoid telling him she'd been working behind his back and against his wishes.

She entered the kitchen, saw Mark hunched over a cup of coffee he cradled in both of his hands as he sat on a stool. He looked up as she approached him. Such a difference from the man who'd claimed he'd known she was awake through thought vibes such a short while ago. It broke her heart.

"Mark," she said quietly. "Nick told me. I'm sorry." She saw Nick's eyes flash up to her in her periphery, but she didn't turn her gaze from Mark. She went over to him and ran her fingers over his shoulder.

"There's coffee," he said, looking back to his cup, then sipping.

Slowly she withdrew her hand, then went for a mug of her own. She was going to need all the reinforcement she could get to pull him up out of this funk, and she wasn't going to get it from Nick, who was presently retreating up the stairs.

………

"Have you had anything to eat?"

Mark swallowed the coffee he'd sipped and even after that his response was a long time in coming. It wasn't as if he had anything remotely resembling an appetite. "No."

"Would you like—"

"No," he interrupted. He was immediately sorry for the brusqueness of his tone, so he rose from the stool and slipped his arm about her shoulders as she stood before the counter. "I'm not hungry. Thanks anyway."

She finished pouring in a little milk—too much once again, he noted—then stirred it, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Jude will have already spoken to DI Kirby. I'm sure she set him straight." She drank from her mug, took another bite from a chocolate croissant she'd pulled out for herself.

He sighed. He knew she wasn't a stupid woman by any means, but in all honesty he didn't know how he could express to her the gravity of this situation so that she would truly comprehend. She was treating this like it was no more serious than a parking ticket. The police probably had been building a case against him from the moment the allegation came to light. And after this, after what appeared to be concrete evidence of money gone missing… well, the public would start to cry for justice and demand he be arrested—they would not tolerate perceived special treatment for someone who knew the law and willfully and blatantly disregarded it. 

When that happened, his career, his life as he knew it, would be over. 

"Bridget," he began carefully, "it won't be as simple as the police dropping the investigation based on what the Crown could say at trial is nothing more than a typo. Not in the face of what appears to be proof of the source of this so-called bribe."

She pursed her lips, as if she didn't believe he was saying what he was saying.

He took a reassuring breath and though tremendously difficult, he voiced his deepest fears: "I fully expect that the next time I see DI Kirby he'll have come to lead me off in handcuffs."

She frowned. "Honestly, Mark, overreacting like this doesn't really help."

It was not the typical supportive reply he was expecting to hear, and he felt somewhat betrayed. Unsurprisingly he lashed out a little in his reply. "And spouting childish optimism doesn't really help either." A flash of hurt pass over her face and he was instantly regretful. "I didn't mean that—"

"I'm sure you didn't," she interrupted in a strained voice. Her eyes were glossy as she looked away.

"Bridget." He reached to take her hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm sorry." 

She looked to him, wiping under her eye, taking in a breath. Finally she said, her breath steady once more, "It's all right." 

As he pulled her into his arms, he wasn't so sure it was.

………

Bridget knew it wasn't really Mark talking—he was on edge, facing professional destruction, and didn't know what she knew about the technician's familial relations—but his words had stung her like a sharp slap, and as he held her close to him, she allowed the tears and the hurt to flow out of her system.

All she could think of was how badly she wanted to catch who was behind this, how much she wanted to restore Mark's name and reputation to him, to the point of driving her to distraction. With him so constantly near her she could hardly call her co-worker for a lengthy brainstorming session, nor could she go down to the studio to help in the research, to help Matt dig for answers—and with the reporters outside, it wasn't as if she could walk out the front door unnoticed, anyway.

Suddenly Mark released her then took a step back, quietly cleared his throat. "I think I'm going to go spend a little time in my office, do some work, get my mind off of this situation for a little while."

It was Mark Darcy code for _I want to be alone_. That was fine. They had been in fairly close quarters for two days already, pummeled repeatedly by stressful news, and it was understandable he might want some time to himself. It was in a way an answer to her prayers, for she could call Matt for an update, maybe even call Jude regarding her friend at the bank. And maybe, just maybe, they could figure out what possible reason a former lab technician (now supervisor) and bank president would have to want to do this to Mark, what possibly linked them besides their apparently secret family connection. She nodded, fighting back a smile that might give him the wrong impression. "All right."

He looked to her with his familiar penetrating gaze before dropping his eyes then turning for the stairs. "You know where to find me," he called to her as he ascended.

She looked down to her coffee, felt tears in her eyes again—tears of anger, of frustration for having absolutely no control over their situation—before she drank the last of it, finished her pastry, then headed upstairs to dress, shower, then call Matt.

………

Mark had expected at least a show of protest when he left the kitchen. He would have insisted on some time on his own, and she would have relented and let him go, but to look so distraught (and rightly so, after his cutting words to her) and to still let him leave without a fight… he felt as if something had subtly shifted between them, like perhaps her patience had finally worn thin, her faith in him finally lost.

He must have been a glutton for punishment, because when he got to his office he was compelled to pull out the files he had at home for the Calhoun case and began reviewing the court transcript. He hadn't worked on it for very long before he was overcome with the urge to know for certain where she stood.

………

Such a troublesome habit, smoking. All the money spent on cigarettes, the damage to the body, and then the inconvenience of being forced to go outside even in the most dreadful weather to satisfy the craving… yet Nick had never once tried to quit. As far as vices go, it was a minor one to have.

Nick had gone back to his room to retrieve another packet out of his bureau drawer, intent on heading back down ( _At least I'm getting some exercise in with all the floors in this bloody house_ , he thought amusedly) to smoke. The packet was not where he'd thought it was, and he cursed to himself for cleverly storing it in an obvious place that turned out not to be quite as obvious as he'd hoped. He located the packet at last and was about to leave when he simultaneously heard what he had come to know as Bridget's mobile ringing and heavy, rapid, solid footfalls coming up the stairs (with the accompanying plea not to hang up). He heard her push open the bedroom door in a hurry then answer her mobile.

Gingerly he stepped out into the hall, stepped nearer to the master bedroom's door (which, in her haste, she did not close all the way) for a listen. He knew he shouldn't but he was overwhelmed with curiosity. He consoled himself by promising not to listen long.

"Hey, I was just about to shower—what's up?" Silence, then: "What did you find?" There was another pause. "On _video_? Really?" Pause. "No, I can't really go out. The reporters would eat me alive, but damn, I do want to see it if it proves the connection between them." Pause. "Well, I don't know. It's a fairly new phone, and I've not received many video messages. How about a still shot just in case?"

_Ahhhh_ , thought Nick with a smirk. He knew exactly what she was up to. He thought it was sweet and endearing that she would continue to try to find proof to exonerate his nephew. As he descended to the main floor then continued down into the kitchen through the French doors, he decided it would be best to keep this to himself for the time being. No harm done in letting her indulge her creative energies. Nothing would come of it in the end, after all.

………

"Okay, a still shot is heading your way of what I was talking about. I'm going to send the video anyway."

"Okay. Call you back in a bit."

She disconnected. Her phone made a melodic, twinkling sound, indicating a picture had been sent to her. She opened it and squinted. It was not a very clear photo—after all, it was a picture taken by a camera phone off of a video monitor—but she saw a younger man, probably Mark's age, whom she recognised from Shazzer's newspaper photocopies as being Henry, standing to the right of to an older man Matt indicated he'd identified as Charlie the banker. It was clear they had no idea they were being recorded (at whatever black tie event they had been recorded at) and their heads were close as if in conversation there in the crowd of people.

Curiouser even still was that another person's arm was clearly around Henry's shoulder, but the identity of that person was masked due to the framing of the shot.

The phone made another sound. Matt's video clip. She hoped it would show her who that third person was.

Even though the video was grainier than the still shot—Matt's voice speaking over the video assured her the original video was quite pristine—she could clearly make out Henry and Charlie smiling and talking. Obviously it was not a conversation between strangers.

Then the camera panned to the left as Henry turned his head to face the third person, also oblivious to the recording that was taking place, and Bridget gasped when she saw who it was. It might have been a crazy coincidence, but she knew deep in her heart this was the connection she'd been looking for. Everything suddenly made a twisted kind of sense.

Bridget's heart was pounding a million beats a minute with excitement and confidence that she was actually going to do it. She was going to save Mark. She took a steadying breath before dialing Sexy Matt's number.

"So?" Matt asked in greeting her call.

"Oh my _God_. Matt, if I weren't otherwise quite firmly and happily attached, I'd have your _babies_."

Matt laughed his sultry laugh again.

She continued, "I'm serious! We need to go to the police with this. The one with an arm around Henry? Knows Mark quite well and never said a _word_ about knowing Mark's accuser. This can't be a coincidence. I don't think the police have any idea they know each other."

Matt whistled. "Well, I'm glad I could help."

"That's an understatement. Hold on." She held the phone away. For a moment she thought she heard someone nearing the door, but when nothing came of it, she continued talking. "Sorry, I thought someone was in the hallway. So I take it you're there alone?"

"Yeah. Finch's given everyone the afternoon off." Under his breath, he asked, "I bet this has been really hard on the both of you." 

"I'm—we're—well, it's been terrible. Now that it's almost over though—" Her voice became laden with emotion, happily contemplating life returning to normal and Mark's reputation being restored.

"Yeah," said Sexy Matt. "You know, I never believed it was true for a moment."

"You don't even know what he's _like_ ," replied Bridget, touched he would say so.

"I knew enough that if _you_ said he didn't do it, he didn't—oh shit, it's Finch, he must have forgotten something," Matt replied, adding in a tone that sounded like a shout to Bridget, "raised incidence of disease in chickens, mm-hmm, okay, right, got it."

She chuckled softly.

"So let's go to the police," said Matt after a moment. "Right now."

"No," she said, thinking of how forlorn he'd looked earlier. She wanted to go down and make sure he was all right. "I can't leave, not until later."

"True. His house appears to be under constant scrutiny by the press," added Matt. "And you were about to shower, yeah?"

"Exactly." She stood and headed for the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her, turning the tap on to bring the water up to temperature. "Tell you what. You have a car, right?"

"Yeah."

"Make a copy of the video and meet me 'round the corner on Strangeways Terrace after supper, about seven. It'll give me some time to… take care of things 'round here." She thought of consoling Mark, maybe even coming clean about what she'd been doing and explaining where she was going.

"How are you going to get away without being seen?"

"It'll be dusky by then."

"You've thought of everything. All right then, Special Agent Jones. Over and out."

She smiled, closing her phone, and was about to climb under the tap when she realised she'd left her clothing in the bedroom. She went out to retrieve it, setting her phone down on the bureau before returning to duck under the water. She also slipped off her ring, figuring it best to leave it behind for her jaunt out of the house, setting it in the safety of Mark's bureau organiser where his wallet lived when it wasn't in his jacket pocket. She'd debated going to Mark before the shower, but she thought it best to leave him to his solitude until afterwards. It would also give her time to mentally prepare what she'd say to him.

………

Hovering just outside the ajar bedroom door, Mark struggled to make sense of what he'd just heard.

_I'm—we're—well, it's been terrible. Now that it's almost over though—_

_You don't even_ _know what he's_ like _._

And worst of them all:

_No. I can't leave, not until later._

The conclusion he arrived at again and again was inescapable. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? Rather, how could he have missed the signs? Was last night just a show, a preface to her announcing she had had enough?

He heard the bathroom door close for a second time, then heard the distinct sound of the spray of water hitting the top of her head. Ordinarily he would never think to pry or violate her privacy, but he thought he had a right to know who she'd been talking to and confiding in.

He picked up her phone, opened it, and looked at the list of incoming and outgoing calls. She'd been talking to 'S. M.' quite frequently, the co-worker she'd mentioned. He punched the keypad to return the last incoming call from 'S. M.' It rang twice before someone picked up—a distinctly _male_ voice in a rather overfamiliar tone:

"Bridge, love, did you change your mind? Want me to come sooner?" There was a silence. "Hello?"

Quickly he closed the phone and set it down. His mind was racing. Another _man_? Could that _really_ be what this was all about? 

A glint to his right caught his eye—Bridget's engagement ring, he realised, had been placed with obvious care and meaning in the tray there. Her ring, which she had cried, smiled, clasped it to her chest and vowed never to take off when he'd given it to her…. It was then he knew it to be true. She was leaving him.

He then headed out of the room and down the stairs. He returned to his office, shut and locked the door, immediately grateful for the decanter of brandy he kept in there.

………

The media had managed to prevent delivery of the newspaper that day, and there would be no strolls to Holland Park or excursions to Grafton Underwood, so Nick was forced to resort to entertaining himself in other ways. He found a book he'd always wanted to read (though never would have admitted to directly if asked), so he settled in on the sofa in the lower sitting room just beside the kitchen and within convenient distance of the French doors should he be overcome with the urge for a cigarette.

As far as he knew, Mark was still holed up in his office (probably working; it was his way of dealing with stress) and Bridget was discussing her silly little clandestine investigation with her friend. He began reading, and for a while forgot the present day troubles for those of another era. 

………

She'd taken her time with the shower, with dressing, doing her hair and makeup, forestalling the inevitable difficult conversation with Mark about the behind-the-scenes machinations. She'd even taken the time to return a call from Jude that had been received in the interim, bringing the Urban Family (by proxy) up to date on what was happening.

"So what did the detective say?" asked Bridget, after she'd finished.

"He thanked me profusely for my help—and was surprised that the bank hadn't caught it."

"Well, if the head of the bank is in cahoots with the mastermind of this plan—"

"I still can't believe that Charlie would have anything to gain by doing this to Mark! He's really such a decent fellow!"

"Ah, but I don't think this was Charlie's plan." She glanced to the clock on the bedside table, was startled to see it was nearly six in the evening. "Bloody hell. I have to go. I haven't even given a thought what to eat for supper, hope Mark's uncle is cooking again. Plus I have to talk to Mark yet."

"Good luck, hon. Call me later. Or maybe I'll just put on the news and hope to see the bad guys being marched into prison."

Bridget smiled as she said her goodbyes, then drew in a breath as she folded her phone shut and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans, put on the sweatshirt with the hood and grabbed her carrier bag, stuffing it with her handbag and other work-related items into it (such as her mini recorder) should they be needed. _Here goes nothing_ , she thought.

The descent to the main floor felt like a walk to the gallows. She realised she had been standing at the door of Mark's office with her balled fist held up as if to knock, without actually knocking, for several minutes.

_Stupid_ , she told herself. _Just knock, talk to him… it'll be all right_.

The first knock on the door was met by stony silence. Puzzled, Bridget tried to open the door, thinking maybe he'd dozed off on his desk, but to her surprise, it was locked again. "Mark?" she called, knocking again. "It's Bridget. May I come in?"

His reply startled her. "I would rather you didn't."

"I'd like to talk to you."

"Please, Bridget." His voice was pained. "Not now."

Stunned, she turned away, felt unexpected tears prick the corners of her eyes. She replied so quietly she wasn't even sure he could hear her. "Okay then."

She hadn't wanted to leave without talking to Mark, least of all without saying goodbye, but he clearly had no desire to see her. She wished she understood why he was pushing her away; surely he must have known that she had not taken his snapping at her to heart. There was no need for him to continue to heap such censure upon himself. However, if he wasn't going to open the door, there was little she could do about it.

She turned away, descended to the kitchen which was completely devoid of life. She sighed; she hadn't realised how badly she'd hoped to find Nick cooking. Maybe he hadn't been joking about the lack of food in the pantry.

The sun had set but the last of the light had yet to fade. It was fairly dark on the lower floor because the blinds along the windowed wall had been drawn closed for privacy's sake, but she managed to find the switch to turn on a single light over the range. She put together a sandwich for herself, ate it with a glass of orange juice as she pondered how she was going to get out of the house.

She glanced at the French doors, thinking it couldn't have been possible for escape to be this easy, but then she remembered the alarm on the doors and realised she had no idea what the code was. Mark had told her once before but because they came to his house so infrequently under ordinary circumstances that she'd forgotten it. Then she remembered her foray into the backyard the night she'd thought he had brought Rebecca home for a shag, remembered that the roof of the back room (where she'd climbed up onto the skylight overhead) was even with the windows on the back of the house, which was where the loo on that floor happened to be.

When she was finished, she stood to put the plate in the sink, then hefted her bag back onto her shoulder. Time to go and meet Matt.

………

The clinking of a plate against the metal of the sink woke Nick from a nap he hadn't intended on taking; he had dozed off while reading. He raised his head to observe Bridget skulking off towards the stairs in the dim light emanating from over the hob, and from her choice in apparel—the hooded sweatshirt she'd been wearing the day he'd met her—she looked like she was heading out of the house.

Due to the light levels in the room he was in, and the positioning of the sofa he was on, he had a feeling she hadn't noticed him there. He was instantly awake and alert and decided to see where she was heading.

Quietly he went up the stairs, saw her head towards the back bathroom as she made a quick call on her mobile. He hung back. It was entirely possible she was just going to use the toilet, and that would have been wholly embarrassing. But when she turned the light on, didn't close the door behind her, concluded her call then turned the light off again, followed by the distinct wood-against-wood sound of the window being lifted, he decided his hunch about her departure had been spot on.

He stepped through the threshold into the bathroom, saw her sitting on the sill preparing to drop down out of it and onto the roof below, the carrier bag on her shoulder stuffed to overflowing. He smiled then loudly (and wickedly) cleared his throat.

She started, nearly losing her grip on the window. She turned and her look of surprise and alarm became one of consternation when she saw who it was.

"What are you doing?" he asked, raising a brow inquisitively.

"Um," she began hesitantly, then finished in a more confident tone, raising her chin defiantly, "I'm going out for a fag."

He suppressed a smile at the transparent lie. "With a packed bag? And were you arranging this fag by phone?" She pursed her lips and scowled. "It's a good thing you don't have to make a living as an actress, or you'd starve. Come down from there, silly child." He held out his hand and assisted her down out of the window.

"I'm cursed to be surrounded by bloody hawk-eyed _lawyers_ ," she grumbled as he stepped back again.

"How did you know that window wasn't connected to the alarm?"

"I looked for wires," she said, as if addressing a simpleton. "Were you spying on me?"

"Not intentionally, no. And you still haven't answered my first question."

She blew a frustrated breath out between her lips. "I'm going to the police."

"Whatever for?"

"Matt, one of my co-workers, has been researching our archives for me and he's found something very interesting that we need to show them."

Nick's brows shot up in astonishment. "What on earth could _you_ have found that the police couldn't?"

She pulled out her phone, pushed a couple of buttons, then turned it so he could see what was on the small screen. It was a very grainy photo of two men. "The one of the left is the man who's accusing Mark of these terrible things. The one on the right is the head of the bank that produced the statements. Obviously they are not strangers, and actually, Matt tells me they're related—I'm not sure how yet—but the fact that they are and no one knows about it is really important."

Nick didn't say so, but he was surprised (and impressed) at what she had been able to accomplish during this whole ordeal without even leaving the house.

She continued. "There's more to this that I don't have time to go into right now, including a third person who might be in charge of the whole thing, because Matt's waiting around the corner for me so the reporters don't see him or me leaving. Just please promise me you won't tell Mark where I've gone off to. I went to tell him myself but he seems very angry at me, doesn't even want to see me." Something resembling sadness settled into her features, but she quickly composed herself and it was gone in a moment. "So now I want to simply go, tell them what we found, then come home and bring good news with me, without all the worry in between."

Nick considered for a moment before he nodded. "All right. Go talk to the police; I won't say a word that you've gone. Just one thing before you go."

She stepped forward, closer to him, and put her hands on her hips. She asked, her tone defensive, "And what's that?"

He walked past her and closed the window. "For God's sake, Bridget, come back downstairs—I'll let you out through the French doors."

………

Mark should have let her in. As he swirled the brandy around in the bottom of the glass, he told himself again that he should have. It was cowardly of him not to give her the chance to her explain face to face that she was leaving him, and why. The plain truth was that he knew he would not have been strong enough to keep from begging her not to go, and he wanted to maintain some semblance of dignity somewhere throughout this catastrophic collapse of his life. 

He knew deep in his heart that if she no longer wanted to be with him, no longer wanted to be his future wife, that he had to let her go without a fight. She wouldn't have respected him otherwise. He wouldn't have respected himself.

………

"Bridge. You made it."

She smiled as she climbed into the passenger side of Matt's old Citroën, settling her bag at her feet. "Remind me never to try to navigate through his backyard and across several others in the dark again. I'm sure I have leaves and things stuck to me, and I'm pretty sure I knocked over someone's birdbath."

Matt turned his eyes to her. "Ah, you look fine. Do you think the press saw you?"

She shook her head. "Though I wasn't able to get out of the house without being noticed."

"Ooh."

"It's all right," she said, thinking once more about Mark's refusal to see her. "Well. Let's go."

"Where to?"

For a moment, she panicked. She had no idea where they were going. And then she remembered she'd stuffed DI Kirby's card into her pocket last night, the same denims she was wearing at the moment. She shoved her hand in to get it then showed it to Matt, who nodded. "Not too far from here," he said. "Okay. Let's roll."

She chuckled.

"By the way," he said after they'd driven a few blocks, "what did you want when you called me back?"

She furrowed her brow. "What?"

"A minute or two after we spoke, after you said you were going into the shower, you called me back—or at the very least your phone did. And then it disconnected."

"Weird. It wasn't me. Who knows. That phone seems to have a life of its own. I probably didn't disconnect our call properly. I'm still getting used to the bloody thing," she said with a grin. "Kind of bizarre though."

"Yeah. Then again, I've found phantom video on mine, so who knows. Maybe gremlins sneak in and operate them when we're not looking."

"Now that wouldn't surprise me a bit," she said. Her knee bobbed up and down nervously. 

"You okay?"

"Mm? Oh, I'm fine. Just looking forward to doing this and getting back home." She turned to Matt. "You have to come in with me. I can't wait for Mark to meet you. He can be a little intimidating and he's very intense at times—but he's really, really sweet at the core, so don't let him scare you."

Matt grinned devilishly. "I'm looking forward to meeting the lucky man who rocks your socks on a fairly regular basis."

She felt her face heat up. "What?"

"Bridget, you're not exactly… shall we say, _quiet_ when you describe your evenings in to your girlfriends."

"Oh my God."

He chuckled.

She made a mental note to remember in future that Sexy Matt was also Well Within Earshot Matt.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yes, this part has the big reveal. Read comments with caution.**

Friday. _(con't.)_

_What a day,_ thought the detective inspector, running a calloused hand down over his face. _And now I have to go and do one of the most difficult things I've ever done: arrest a barrister I've admired and respected for years._

He was gathering his things together when Constable Duncan approached him, a young blonde woman and a handsome young chap with short spiky black hair close behind her. "DI Kirby, these two need to see you straightaway."

He pulled on his mack, returning his attention to his impending departure. "I'm just on my way out right now. Come back in the morning, thanks."

"This can't wait."

Kirby looked back to the constable, was surprised by the seriousness of his expression. The light dawned. "Does this have to do with—"

"What you were about to do? Yes."

Kirby could not contain his surprise. "And who might you be?" he asked the pair of strangers directly.

"My name's Bridget Jones."

Darcy's fiancée. "Ms Jones, pleasure to meet you. How did you know how to find me?"

She held up the card he had given Mark. 

"Ah. And who's your friend?"

Bridget indicated the fellow she was with. "This is Matt. We work together at the network on the show 'Sit Up Britain'. Matt is a whiz at research and also happens to have encyclopædic knowledge of our video archive. And he's found some things I think you should see." Her companion, Matt, held up a video cassette and a folder of papers.

Kirby realised they could have been bringing a video cassette of Pingu the penguin and he would have led them off to watch it simply to delay having to arrest Darcy. "All right. Let's find a VTR."

Matt explained that the tape was from about five years ago, a charity event that Sit Up Britain had gone to film coverage of because of the celebrities who were scheduled to attend. The figures they were most interested in right now, though, in were off to the side, not the focus of the camera, but quite identifiable nonetheless.

Matt paused the tape after it had panned left a bit, explaining what Kirby had already figured out: that Darcy's accuser and the bank president were quite chummy.

Matt then gave him public documents verifying that Henry Wilkins' name at birth had been Dawkins, and that according to the original birth certificate filed, he was in fact Charlie Dawkins' son. The wheels in Kirby's head spun with possibilities as previously unseen dots were identified and connected, and a bigger picture emerged.

"And this," said Bridget, pointing to the left-most figure on the screen, "is who I believe is the hub of the wheel. It's someone who knows Mark _quite_ well and might have motive to frame him, though what it might be at this point is beyond me. Strange, isn't it, that none of them happened to mention they knew one another when you talked to them?"

Kirby found it very strange, indeed. Very suspicious. He didn't say so, but he was mightily impressed. If not for the video the association might never have been discovered. Kirby tore his gaze from the screen and back to the pair of them, grinning like a proud papa. "I'm very glad you came. _Very_ glad indeed."

They each smiled. Bridget spoke, "It was the least I could do—since I know Mark never could have done what he was being accused of."

"Good work." They left the interrogation room where the VTR was located and he began to walk them to the front desk. "Tell me, were you spotted by the press coming down here tonight?"

She looked to Matt then back to Kirby. "Don't think so, no."

He suspected she was right, or the media would already be flooding the bullpen. "How did you manage that?"

Bridget smiled. "Under cover of darkness… and foliage."

"I was going to offer a police escort home, but it looks like you don't need it. Well done." His grin faded though as his mind raced to think where to go next. His gut was telling him to go after the youngest of the three, that he'd be the quickest to crack. However, he couldn't bloody well pull Wilkins in for questioning now, three days after the story broke; it would arouse suspicion by the other two (if they were in fact involved).

"You all right, sir?" asked Bridget.

"What? Yes, Ms Jones, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

He smiled, indicating they should come with him to his office. "Off the record," said Kirby in a conspiratorial tone, "I don't think Mr Darcy did it either but the evidence… I'm sorry to say, if this new lead doesn't pan out, based on that evidence, we'll have to charge him." He watched the colour drain from Bridget's face. "The only way we're going to prove Mr Darcy was framed is if someone talks, since there's no real evidence of a conspiracy. Now, my feeling is that Wilkins would crack first. He's given us copies of the statements and any other physical evidence we've asked for, but has been hesitant to actually come down to talk to us."

"But the video…"

"The video brings to light the fact that these three know each other and never bothered to volunteer that information, but it doesn't _prove_ anything that would stand up in court."

Bridget screwed up her face with the effort of concentration before her features transformed with the excitement of a newborn idea. "I know! I'll wear a wire and talk to Wilkins."

Matt burst out with a laugh; Kirby stared at her in disbelief. "This is not a Hollywood movie, Ms Jones," he said sternly. "It takes time to arrange a sting operation like that, to requisition equipment—"

"Is that your only objection? Because if it is, I have my own equipment." She patted her bag. "I bring my mini recorder wherever I go." She indicated Matt. "And if you like, Matt's phone takes video." Matt nodded, though he looked unsure about being pulled into an undercover sting operation.

Kirby was dubious. Not that he enjoyed the idea of putting citizens at risk, but it would be awfully nice to get this case out of his hair. It was pulling a fine man through the mud of innuendo and scandal, and putting immense amounts of pressure from the higher-ups on his already overworked precinct.

"All right. Let's hear your idea."

Bridget smiled, obviously very pleased, and began speaking. With every word Kirby became more and more convinced she had missed her calling as a police detective. Or a novelist, at the very least.

He walked them out of his office and back out onto the floor, still contemplating his options. He had to admit it might just work, and said at last, "Well, Ms Jones, this is highly irregular, but you're on. Here's Wilkins' number. I'll take you over to a phone that isn't broadcasting caller information, and you can give him a call to arrange a meeting. I'm assigning Constables Duncan and Peters to accompany you."

Duncan looked up from his desk. If he wasn't mistaken, Kirby thought he looked a little panicked.

As they walked back towards the private office to use the phone, Bridget paused to dig her own mobile out of her pocket, flip it open, punch some buttons, then close it and put it back. At Kirby's undoubted confused look, she explained with a proud smile: "It wouldn't do to have a call come in during a top-secret operation."

………

"Mark, it's me," said Rebecca, tucking the receiver of her telephone under her chin. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"It's… not a good night," came Mark's gravelly voice.

"Yes, I heard the news, I'm so sorry," she said, hunkering down with dinner on her sofa. "It must be a bad night. You sound terrible. I didn't mean to disturb you—at least you have Bridget, right?" she added brightly.

Mark made no reply. She frowned worriedly.

"Are you still there?" she asked.

"Yes. I'm still here."

The poor man clearly needed cheering, so she put a smile back on her face and told him that at least those he'd asked to keep on it were keeping on it to prove his innocence.

"Rebecca, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said wearily. "I haven't asked anyone to 'keep on it'. I've told everyone leave it be, and to let the police handle it, as they should."

Her frown of concern turned into confusion. "I must be mistaken then. Well. I'll let you go, sounds like you need to maybe turn in early. Say hi to Bridget for me."

He paused then said, "Good night, Rebecca," before hanging up. Odd. His tone was very much unlike him.

In fact, it was a very worrisome conversation all around, both Mark's mood and demeanour, and… well, her thoughts kept going back to Mark's office that morning. If Mark hadn't put anyone back on the case, when why had that file been taken out? She pondered it as she finished her shepherd's pie, then decided to contact the police. It was probably an unrelated, insignificant piece of information but in good conscience she couldn't _not_ say anything.

………

Nick was not sure what had prompted Mark to resort to sequestering himself in his office for the majority of the day, but he did know he had been in there quite long enough feeling sorry for himself. It was time for tough love. He knocked firmly on the door. "Mark? Do you want some supper? I fried up some bangers."

After a moment or two, the door opened, and Nick was greeted with the overpowering scent of stale air and booze. Mark looked really rough, but seemed steady on his feet, so wasn't obviously intoxicated. "Mark my boy, why on earth have you taken to pickling yourself in your office?" 

He stared hard at his uncle, pointed an accusing finger his way. "Whatever you do, don't say 'I told you so'."

"What?"

Mark dropped his hand. "Bridget's left me." He took a step forward, stumbled a little.

" _What?_ Bah. You _have_ been drinking too much," Nick quipped, stepping forward to slip an arm about Mark's waist to help him walk.

Mark pushed his hand away, refusing the help. "It's true," he said. "I overheard her talking to someone—a man, I later discovered—making plans to leave me, and to do it today. She left her ring for me on the bureau. And she came to tell me before she went but I didn't have the heart to open the door, to face her."

"That's nonsense," said Nick.

Mark stopped just at the top of the staircase leading down to the kitchen. He turned back to Nick, his tone verging on angry when he spoke. "Is it nonsense? Have you even seen her lately? Is she here?" He turned and walked towards the other stairs, calling to the upper floor, "Bridget! Bridget!"

Nick drew his mouth into a thin line. As much as it pained him to break a confidence, it pained him even more to see his beloved nephew in such a state. "Mark," he said quietly. "You're right. She's not here."

Mark turned back to Nick. He couldn't remember the last time his eyes had looked so fierce… or so sad.

"But," Nick continued, "I'm afraid you've jumped to the wrong conclusion."

"I heard how relieved she sounded when she said it was almost over, heard her say that she couldn't leave until later today, but that she _was_ leaving…"

"Mark, I saw Bridget before she left. Yes, she tried to come and tell you she was leaving, but not for the reason you think, and not for good." He put his arm around Mark's shoulder, taking advantage of his bewildered state to direct him out of the foyer and into the front room to sit on the sofa. He sat next to Mark. "She has been in contact with someone she works with, someone called Matt. He has been doing research for her since she wasn't able to do it herself—"

"I told her not to interfere with the police investigation," he interrupted.

"Mark," Nick snapped, "shut up, for God's sake, and let me _finish_. You should be damn thankful she's stubborn enough that she's willing to go against your very wishes to save your backside. This Matt fellow was able to locate some video that proves that the man who accused you and the man who runs the bank the statements come from are not only acquainted but somehow _related_ , and, I think, some other things that implicate yet someone else—she didn't say who—as being involved and possibly behind the whole thing." He paused for a breath, watched as the truth sank in, before delivering his summation: "Mark, this girl was willing to sneak out of the house through the window to avoid the press just to take this evidence to the police, all for _you_."

Mark looked shell-shocked.

Finally, he added, fully aware of the irony that he of all people should be saying this to Mark: "I don't know what more proof you could possibly need that this girl loves you beyond all sense, though right now I'm not even sure you deserve it."

………

Mark wasn't sure what stunned him more: that Bridget had not in fact lost faith in him, nor had she left him, nor was there another man; or that his jaded old Uncle Nick, confirmed cynic when it came to women, had just said what he'd said.

"Where did she go?" Mark asked, surprised that his voice had suddenly decided to abandon him.

"As I said, the police. Probably to see that detective inspector."

Mark stood, forgetting for a moment that he was still slightly inebriated. He wavered for a moment but chose to ignore it, then sat again. "Nick," he said, bringing his fingers to his unfocused eyes, "if you wouldn't mind, please find me my mobile. I think it's on my desk."

Nick smirked. "That's my boy," he said, before striding out into the foyer.

How could he have been so stupid, doubting Bridget like he had? Why had he automatically assumed infidelity when, given the opportunity, she hadn't even slept with Daniel Cleaver during their time apart? As soon as he thought it, he knew why—his ex-wife, who had tainted him for the rest of his life—

He resolved there and then to be more aware of irrational thoughts of this nature. He should have known she would have continued working on doing everything she could do to help—because that was her nature. And frankly, he would have done the same. He _had_ done the same.

His uncle returned with his phone. He wasted no time punching in Bridget's speed-dial number… but her phone rang until it went to voice mail. He left no message. Frankly, it was a little worrisome. He tried again, with the same result. Mark muttered, "God, if something's happened to her…"

Nick replied, "I'm sure she's fine. Little can happen between here and the police station." Mark swore he looked amused.

He thought next to call Kirby, remembered he'd left the DI's card on his desk and intended on going to get it himself come hell or high water when he then remembered he'd last seen the card in Bridget's hand as she'd read Jude the information.

Jude.

Thankfully he'd saved Jude's mobile number in his mobile's address book during the Thai crisis; it had come in quite handy during this entire ordeal. He scrolled to her entry, pushing the button to connect. It rang once… twice… three times before she picked up, the longest three rings in his life.

"Mark?" came Jude's tentative voice.

"Yes, it's me. Listen, I need to find Bridget. I know she's gone to the police station to see DI Kirby but she has the card with the information on it and she's not answering her mobile. Can you give me Kirby's number?"

"Sure, hold on, let me find the paper I wrote it down on."

"Okay, I'll wait."

Nick cleared his throat. Mark looked up.

"I don't want to worry you," Nick said, almost as an afterthought to his previous speech, "but I've just realised she _has_ been gone for nearly four hours."

By the time Jude returned, Mark had formulated another plan. "Jude. I need a huge favour. Are you free?"

………

"So. I'm here. Let's talk."

Bridget sat on a well-lit park bench in Hyde Park. She had her hair pushed back and hidden under the hood of her sweatshirt; the string was pulled tight around her chin and tied snugly. She also had put her overly large, Jackie O-style sunglasses on, even though it was dark outside, specifically to obscure her eyes. She realised she probably looked a bit on the comical side—the sunglasses at night were a bit cliché—but it was the best she could do on such short notice, and it disguised her identity well enough. She turned to look at the flesh and blood face of Henry Wilkins, the man who had publicly accused Mark of bribery. Compared to those photos she'd seen, he looked haggard. The dark circles under his hazel eyes and his sunken cheeks were accentuated by the harsh downlighting, and his light blond hair was in serious disarray.

She kept her chin high and jutted out, kept her voice even, low and confident. "I'm here on behalf of… well. An interested party."

"Keep talking." He took a seat beside her; her bag was out of sight under the bench.

"We've uncovered some interesting information pertaining to your father."

"Eric Wilkins?" Henry asked in surprise. "He's been dead for six years."

"I mean your _real_ father. Charles Dawkins."

Henry clearly tried to hide the surprise he felt, but Bridget heard the sharp intake of breath, saw his jaw drop before catching himself.

"Don't deny it. We have uncovered your original birth certificate—the one that was issued before your mother filed for a correction. Funny, it took her six months to do so." Bridget held up a photocopy of Matt's find. Henry swallowed nervously. "I mean, I would have memorised my precious baby's birth record the moment—"

He looked back and forth, as if double-checking to see if he was being observed talking to, or as if he were weighing his options. She wondered if he would refuse to admit it. "Look, yes, he's my father," Henry said desperately, "obviously if you've found _that_ , I can't deny it. A man of his stature can't afford to acknowledge an illegitimate child, so…" He cleared his throat again, regaining some of his composure. "What do you want from me? From him?"

Time to dive into it with both feet. "We know your father is the mastermind behind falsifying evidence to frame Mark Darcy for bribery. Our inside man at the bank has presented us with evidence showing your father accessed and made changes to the file in question—" (it was frankly amazing to her how easily this stuff was flowing) "—as well as giving us computer backups showing the file in its original, unchanged state." And, suddenly inspired, she dug into the front pocket of her sweatshirt to present a flash drive. "Not the only copy, of course."

From the look on his face, from the way his eyes widened, she knew she'd struck the right chord. It had been a logical assumption, though a guess all the same, that Charlie was involved in doctoring the statements via the computer system. She was sure no evidence of computer tampering or backups had actually been found—if it had, this whole situation wouldn't have gotten so far out of control.

Henry, however, had no way of knowing this, or of knowing that the flash drive contained video files of gorgeous bottoms Tom had sent to her via email attachment.

In her most serious tone, she concluded, "We are prepared to withhold this from the police… for a price."

Henry's gaze flew back to her, clearly terror-stricken. "What kind of price? By when?"

"We understand that it's Friday night and all the banks have closed. So we'll give you until Tuesday to make arrangements." Bridget paused to draw out the suspense. "£250,000."

He went even whiter than he already was. "Oh my God. I don't have that kind of money."

She studied him for many moments with a cold expression on her face. "I guess your _father_ will have to take his chances with the justice system, then," she said, careful to place special emphasis on that particular word. She stood. "Good evening."

She had taken three steps away from him when she heard him call after her, just as she'd guessed he would. "Wait. _Wait_."

She turned around, practising the look she'd seen too many teachers give her in her days in school. She quickly returned to their meeting spot lest he step out from under the light. "Have you suddenly remembered a windfall?"

"No." He looked crazed; Bridget was suddenly quite thankful for the constables being so nearby. "You can't do this to him."

"The evidence we've gathered says we can, and as dutiful (though capitalistic) citizens, we should."

"What if…" he began, running his hands through his hair, then looked as if he were struck with revelation. "What if I paid you with information instead?"

Bridget's heart raced, though she remained cool, calm, steady. "What kind of information?"

"Information leading to who's actually behind… everything." Damn. Henry had stopped short of actually admitting there was a conspiracy to frame Mark. "Someone who _could_ meet your… monetary demands."

Bridget scoffed. "You could name _Tony Blair_ , for God's sake. How can we be sure your information is good? How can we trust you?"

Henry looked visibly calmer, probably at the thought that he might be able to buy his father's freedom by selling out the brain behind the plot. "What if I told you it was someone who works with Mark Darcy, someone who realised he had stumbled onto a very illegal secret within chambers?"

_This was it_ , thought Bridget. She called upon her inner Ice Queen as she said, "This could all be as much a fiction as Prime Minister Blair's involvement. I need _proof_."

"In my house, in my wall safe," he said with an eerie calm, "I have a ledger that I have kept over the past ten years detailing money I have received and, shall we say, redistributed quite illegally for this individual. When it became clear that Darcy began to suspect what was going on, well… this individual decided it must be nipped in the bud, destroy Darcy's credibility before he could claim anything illegal was going on. I can produce this ledger at any time if it means you'll take my information as payment."

_That was a motive, all right_ , thought Bridget.

"Does this individual have a name?" she asked calmly.

"Yes."

As Henry said it, Bridget gave the sign (removing her sunglasses), and within moments Duncan and Peters appeared as if from nowhere, each taking one of Wilkins' elbows as he stood indignantly from the bench.

Duncan cautioned Wilkins: "You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you _do_ say may be given in evidence."

They led him to the squad car. She in turn pulled her bag out from under the bench, picked up and switched off her mini recorder with a smile, then patted it affectionately. At the same time, she looked up to see Matt had come under the cone of illumination with his very fancy, state of the art mobile poised in his hand. He grinned and held his thumb up to indicate success.

………

It had been many years since either men, both a little on the tall side, had been in a Mini; Mark had forgotten how tiny they were inside, and Nick looked positively annoyed crammed into the backseat. Mark didn't care. They had successfully slipped out of the house through the French doors and over onto a street to the west, where Jude awaited in her little blue car. Prior to leaving, Mark had taken a few minutes to make himself presentable, changing into fresh clothes, combing his hair and quickly shaving, before practically inhaling the bangers Nick had fried up, as his appetite had returned with a vengeance. During this short time any residual effects of intoxication disappeared.

They pulled up to the kerb in the closest parking spot to the station. No one had said a word the entire ride. The car had barely stopped when Mark threw open his door and launched himself onto the sidewalk.

"Mark," called his uncle, "there's no need to run."

Mark begged to differ.

The young female officer at the front desk looked up with some alarm as he approached. Not waiting for her to ask what he wanted, he said, "I'm looking for DI Kirby."

"What is this regarding?"

He lowered his voice. "Me, unfortunately."

"And you are—?" At that moment she stopped and squinted, as if she suddenly recognised him. "Oh, right. I'll go get him." She stood then passed through the low gate into the back area.

He felt a touch on his elbow, and he turned to see his uncle and Jude had arrived behind him. "They're going to get him," Mark explained.

Jude was on tiptoes, searching with her eyes the rows of desks beyond the dividing wall. "I don't see Bridget back there at all."

Mark didn't either, nor was she accompanying DI Kirby as he emerged from what Mark presumed to be his office and walked towards them. "Mr Darcy. I think I know why you're here. Come on back." Spotting Nick, he added, "No need for counsel. This is off the record."

He shared a look with Jude and Nick. "We'll wait here," said Nick.

Mark nodded. He passed the officer from the front desk as he walked back to where DI Kirby's office was. He indicated Mark should take a seat, closed the door behind them. "I suppose you're here regarding your fiancée."

"Yes," he said. "Can you take me to her?"

"Afraid that I can't at the moment."

"Why not?" he asked. "Are you holding her for some reason? She only came to bring evidence—"

Kirby laughed. "You have the wrong idea. She's out in the field."

Mark drew his brows close. "What are you talking about?"

"She volunteered to talk to Wilkins and record the conversation—"

Mark exploded, standing so quickly he almost knocked over the chair he'd been occupying. "She _what_? And you let her? If anything at _all_ happens to—"

"Hold on, Mr Darcy. She's with two constables and her friend Matt, and the situation is well under control."

"What on earth would possess her to volunteer to do such a thing?"

"Oh, it was through no encouragement on our part, I assure you. In fact… she came up with the idea shortly after I mentioned that you were likely to be arrested if this lead didn't get us anywhere."

Mark blinked in surprise. He wondered if it was normal to have such conflicting emotions towards the same person at the same time: love, gratitude, and the overwhelming urge to throttle.

Kirby's phone rang. "Excuse me, will you?" He picked up the receiver and Mark began to pace as he listened to Kirby's side of the conversation, punctuated by pauses: "Kirby here. Uh-huh. Right, fantastic. Excellent, good work. Okay. See you in a few."

Kirby replaced the receiver on its cradle.

"Well. The constables have taken Wilkins into custody for questioning. Your bird did great. She's on her way back here." He rose from behind his desk. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get a couple of units to pick the other two up, and I have an interrogation to prepare."

"The other two?"

Kirby nodded. "Wilkins gave up not only Charles Dawkins from the bank, but—well, shortly before you got here, I had a phone call come through from a—" His eyes scanned over his notepad. "Ah. Rebecca—damn, can't read my own writing. Guillias, Gillis—do you know her?"

"Gillies. Yes. She's my assistant."

"Yeah, well, she alerted us to the fact that someone in your office may have been looking through your files on the Calhoun case without your authorization, thought we should know. Just so happens that it's the same person Wilkins just gave up as being behind this whole thing. Very suspicious."

Mark's heart hammered in his chest. Someone in his _office_ had done this to him? Although he really didn't want to know, he asked, "Who?"

"Do you know a man by the name of…" He flipped through his notebook. "…Horatio St John-Smyth?

Mark suddenly found himself sitting in the chair again, feeling slightly dizzy.

"I take that to mean 'yes'. Right." Kirby scribbled a note down.

"It can't be," he said, snapping out of it, turning his eyes back to the detective inspector. "I mean, are you sure?"

"We've got two independent sources giving us his name. Now, your assistant's news may very well be unrelated, but according to her, he allowed her to believe he was looking at that file for you. So I tend to think it's very relevant, but we'll see what Wilkins has to say. I expect if we offer to go easy on him, he'll tell us everything we want to know."

" _Easy_ on him?" said Mark angrily. "He nearly ruined my life."

"Mr Darcy, you should know better than anyone that we offer crumbs to the little fish in order to fry the bigger ones," he said with a grin, and Mark realised he was right. "Rest assured he won't get off with a slap on the wrist, and I think he'll talk if it means it'll save his sorry arse. Well." He cleared his throat. "You've clearly had a bit of a shock. Take a moment to gather yourself here in my office, and you can leave when you're ready. Meanwhile, I'm going to meet the constables and Wilkins."

With that, Kirby departed, closing the door behind him.

He pressed his fingers into the corner of his eyes and he sighed. He knew he should be feeling relief that this nightmare might truly be over, but twice before had he allowed himself to feel that way, only to have that relief replaced with an even deeper sense of despair. He wasn't overly keen to subject himself to it a third time. He knew it was all going to hinge on what Wilkins had to say—and whether the police believed it.

………

"Bridget!"

Bridget had long since removed the hood from her head, had put the sunglasses back in her bag. Her head jerked up at the familiar voice, was startled to see Jude sitting in one of the chairs by the front desk. Then the man standing near her turned around—it was Nick!

Bewildered, she asked, "What are you two doing here?"

"We were looking for _you_!" said Jude. "What's going on?"

She smiled proudly. "We did it."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Matt and I. The co-worker I told you about, remember?"

"Right." Jude sighed. "So what did you do?"

With an elated smile on her face, Bridget briefly explained what they had done out in Hyde Park. She also explained that Matt was with Constable Peters signing the recordings (including, unfortunately, his precious phone) into evidence for processing. "They promised to get the file off and get his phone back to him tonight, though."

Jude stood there slack-jawed. "Jeeeeezus," she said. "I can't believe it you actually did it."

"It's all true." Bridget turned to Nick, who looked quite smug. "What?"

"I'm just imagining Mark's reaction to the news of your little undercover stint."

Her mouth popped open—she realised he was conspicuously absent. "Where _is_ Mark?"

"He went back to Kirby's office. Ah. Here comes Kirby now." Jude pointed.

As he got closer he saw Bridget, smiled, and said, "Ms Jones. Mr Darcy's in my office, if you'd like to see him. He came here looking for you."

She smiled, relieved. "I'd like that very much."

She headed back for the office.

When she swung open the door, her eyes immediately met Mark's and her smile fell. He actually looked angry.

"Mark," she said quietly.

"Bridget," he said in reply. "First Nick and then DI Kirby told me what you've been up to. I can't _believe_ —" He stopped, looked down, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and taking a breath. "I can't believe you went ahead and did what you did when I specifically asked you not to—then to potentially put your life at risk on a hunch by going undercover for the bloody police…"

She swallowed, felt her throat closing with emotion. "You're upset."

He looked to her again. "You're damn right I'm upset," he said hotly, turning angry eyes back to her. But in an instant the anger dissipated, and he strode to her, pulling her quickly into his arms. "But I've also never been so deeply grateful for anything or any _one_ in my entire life."

She sputtered a disbelieving, awkward laugh, her eyes filling with tears of relief. She held him tightly as felt his hand cradling the back of her head. The embrace they'd shared only that morning seemed like years ago.

"And… deeply ashamed," he added after a moment.

"Ashamed? Why?" She pulled back to look to him.

"Because I accidentally overheard part of your conversation with your co-worker and… I'm embarrassed to say I interpreted in quite the wrong way."

"What?" She mentally went back to her conversations with Matt, tried desperately to remember what she'd said. "What on earth did you think we were talking about?"

He dropped his eyes again, then closed them as he spoke. "I thought you were planning to leave me. That you'd had enough of this whole situation, had had enough of me. That you'd maybe found someone else, when a man's voice answered…." He looked to her again. "I should have let you in when you knocked. I hope you can forgive me."

Her mouth gaped open as she remembered Matt's mention of the mysterious callback. She couldn't believe what she'd just heard him admit to. "Hold on a moment. Are you saying you snuck onto my phone and rang up Matt?"

He looked utterly chastened. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking properly. I shouldn't have. I should have known to trust you. It was wrong."

"I don't know what to say, Mark." She regarded him intently for many moments, her eyes fixed to his. She had been guilty in the past of jumping to the wrong conclusion herself regarding his fidelity, so as the woman who'd climbed out onto Mark's skylight to gaze down onto a suspected tryst with Rebecca, she had no right to act high and mighty about him fiddling around with her phone. She also knew he was always going to be overprotective of her (whether she liked it or not), just as she was always going to do whatever it took regardless of risk when it came to him (despite the anger it might incite in him). It was something she decided she could live with. "Except," she finished at last, "maybe that you can stop groveling now." Then she raised her fingers to his brow, traced the arch down to his cheek, over his sideburn and down along his jaw.

He blinked rapidly as if it might help him to fully comprehend what she'd said.

"I should have corrected you when you mistakenly thought the co-worker I was speaking to was a 'she'. I never would have kept that from you if I'd known it'd lead you to believe I was being unfaithful or contemplating chucking you."

"Why _did_ you keep that from me?" he asked.

She allowed a grin. "I thought you might not like the thought of me, um, ringing up other blokes."

He chuckled, looking genuinely happy at last. "You can ring up _anyone_ you like in future and I promise not to think the worst. I swear."

Her brows shot up in surprise. "You _promise_?"

He nodded. "Cross my heart." He raised his right hand and made an X with his thumb over the left side of his chest. "So I guess I might be able to persuade you to take this back?"

"What?"

He turned his right hand over and opened it, revealing her ring nestled in the palm of his hand. What he must have thought when he found it on his bureau, thinking what he did about her departure. "Oh, Mark, I didn't mean anything by leaving it behind—I just didn't want to damage it climbing out the window…" She reached for it, but he closed his fingers.

"Oh no," he said, pulling his hand back, releasing her from his embrace. The way he was grinning told her he knew she hadn't left her ring behind for any sinister reason… at the very least, he knew that now. "Allow me."

He slipped the ring back into place on her left ring finger, then planted a brief but tender kiss on her lips.

"Although," he said, stepping away from her, "I'm still a little angry that you deliberately disobeyed my request."

"'Disobeyed'?" she asked with a light laugh. "Note to self: strike any mention of the word 'obey' from marriage vows."

"Bridget, I'm serious," he said. "The ends can't justify the means. This could have just as easily turned out badly."

"But it didn't."

"But it _might_ have."

"Ah," she said. "But it _didn't_. And as I've said before, I'm always right."

He simply stared at her for a moment then laughed again, taking hold of her hand. "Come on. Let's see if we can go home."

She hadn't realised until that moment how badly she wanted to go home. She squeezed his hand, smiled, and followed him out.

………

Nick watched his nephew and that crazy fiancée of his emerge hand in hand from Kirby's office. He was fairly confident that fences had been mended. Nick had made it plain that Mark had better mend them, or else.

Nick couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he'd decided Bridget would do very well indeed for a niece-in-law, or when he'd decided he liked her; it was more gradual than that, the sum of so many small moments, gestures, words and actions. Any woman could say she loved a man; not every woman was as fully prepared to back it up as Bridget was. He respected that about her. And he could easily imagine having a fag with her on Mark's back patio.

For the first time in his life, he felt a twinge of envy regarding his nephew. Not that he'd ever admit to such a thing.

………

Strange that his call was ringing through then going to voicemail. He couldn't remember a time when his call hadn't been answered on the second, third ring at the latest. Frowning, he pressed the End button, set the mobile down, and sat at his desk with his fingers steepled at his chin. He stared at it for a moment, then picked it up again, dialing another number. He expected his call would be picked up instantly, but it too rang until it went to voicemail. He closed the phone for good.

The simple occurrence of neither of his partners not answering his calls would have been worrisome to him if the latest part of the plan hadn't worked so well to turn the tide of public opinion firmly against Darcy. _Maybe there's a sweet little family tableau at Wilkins' place: father, son, grandkids_ , he thought, pursing his lips, _and they couldn't answer their phones_.

A sharp knock at his office door startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see one of the domestics standing there with an expression of confusion on her face.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked brusquely.

"There's s-someone here to see you," she stammered.

Ah. Probably Dawkins—Wilkins knew better than to be seen coming here. He smiled. "Let 'im in, there's a gir—"

He froze when a female constable broke the plane of the door.

"Horatio St John-Smyth?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, standing indignantly. "What do you mean by coming into my home—"

He felt his wrist grasped by another constable, a boy who to Horatio looked about twelve. "We mean to arrest you."

It wasn't until he heard the caution, felt the cuffs tighten around his wrists, that he realised everything had fallen irrevocably apart.

………

"So Mark… this is Matt. We work together."

Mark scrutinised the handsome young man as they all stood there in the waiting area of the police station, hoping soon to hear that they would be able to leave. He had short cropped black hair in a deliberately unkempt looking modern style; light hazel eyes; well-defined cheeks and a chiseled jawline; lithe, obviously highly-toned body; and, he supposed, a nice smile, though Matt was patently too nervous to share one just yet as he looked up to Mark, for Mark towered over the chap almost as much as Mark towered over Bridget.

Matt held out his hand. "It's nice to meet you, Mr Darcy. I've heard a lot of really, _really_ nice things about you from Bridget."

Mark glanced at Bridget, who for some odd reason was turning a faint shade of pink. Mark then took Matt's hand, shook it firmly. "Matt, please call me Mark. I understand I have quite a lot to thank you for."

The smile emerged at last, and though hesitant, it was a pleasant enough smile. He couldn't have been much older than twenty-seven, twenty-eight at the latest. "Glad to have helped. It was just tearing her apart."

"You spoke quite often during these four days?" Mark asked, looking to Bridget again, fighting a grin.

"Well, not _quite_ often, but she was just _so_ het up to find who did this… I'm just so glad the end seems to be coming to an end."

Nervous indeed. Mark allowed the grin; Matt seemed to relax a little. "I am extremely grateful for your assistance. Thank you."

Now Matt smiled fully; straight, perfect white teeth. "You're welcome. Anytime." Matt's smile then fell, and he hastened to explain himself: "Um, I mean—well, you know what I mean; I mean, I don't _want_ you to be accused again of—"

Mark laughed. "I know what you mean."

Matt shoved his the tops of fingers into his front pockets, a gesture that reminded Mark of something a small boy might do. "Well, they tell me my phone's just about finished, if you want I can give you a lift home…"

Mark glanced to Jude. "I don't think we'll all fit in Jude's Mini, so yes, that would be nice." There was a distinct look of gratitude on Nick's face.

And Jude's. "So, no offense," she said, "but it's been a long day, and I'm gonna bugger off." She hugged Bridget. "Good work, girlfriend."

Bridget smiled.

Mark said, "Jude, thank you for bringing us out here tonight. I've said it before, it bears repeating: I am hugely in debt to you for your help, too."

She went up to Mark and hugged him as well. "Anytime," she said with a laugh.

………

In all his years with Metropolitan Police, DI Kirby had never seen a suspect fold as quickly as Henry Wilkins had. When he told him they'd consider leniency if he spoke out against his co-conspirator, he agreed on one condition: that his biological father, Charlie Dawkins, be given the same consideration.

"My father was forced to play his part as much as I was," he was saying now during the interrogation, "if not more so. I was stupid and naïve when I agreed to launder money for Horatio, though God knows I didn't realise what I was doing at the time; Horatio phrased it in terms of doing my father—Charlie, I mean—a favour by hiding money from my mother. I was so angry at my mother for keeping the secret of who my real father was from me for so long that I agreed.

"But Charlie? It was about a week ago, only after Horatio started to panic, that Charlie got involved. Horatio saw Darcy looking at some sort of phony ledger on his desk and he freaked out. Darcy's pretty quick on the uptake and thought it was only a matter or time before he put it together. So Horatio told us that if we didn't comply we'd all go to prison for money laundering if we didn't help protect his embezzlement—"

"Is that what he did?" Kirby asked. "Embezzle?"

Wilkins nodded. "From his law firm. Yeah. And since he was a big shot lawyer he convinced us Charlie and me that we would bear the brunt of the charges. So he had me make the accusation, had Charlie doctor the statements to back it up—but I'm sure you knew that, yeah?"

"What?"

"That… police lady, the one who met me in the park, she mentioned evidence of computer tampering and backup copies of the original files—"

Kirby laughed. "Well, I'm sure we'll go back over that _now_ with a fine-toothed comb and find that sort of thing, but no, we never found any such evidence initially, because we took Dawkins' word that the statements were legitimate. We'll bring the computer forensics team in now."

Wilkins went pale. "You mean—"

"It was a lie. Yes." Kirby paced. "But we did discover through a friend of Darcy's that the statements were fraudulent—discovered apparently some time yesterday. Is that when things escalated?"

Wilkins swallowed hard, nodding. "Horatio called and told me that Charlie told him that someone had found out that the statements were a fake. So he told me to fix the lab's computer records, to show that the lab had received £2,500 less than the law firm showed they'd paid." He sighed—and Kirby had heard it enough times to know what relief sounded like.

"We didn't want to do it, any of it," he continued. "We really didn't. But Horatio… well, he made it sound like we'd die old men in prison if we didn't do what he told us to do. And I'm afraid we still will."

Kirby sat on the edge of the table, effected his kindest tone, his friendliest face. "You're doing the right thing by talking. You're a good lad and you don't have a record of any kind. And we'll do what we can for your father too, if he can corroborate your story." He rested his hand on Wilkins' shoulder, glad they had picked the father and son up before they'd had a chance to get their stories square with one another, and even more thankful they'd nabbed St John-Smyth before he could use his ample resources to flee the country. "You don't look like you've gotten a wink of sleep in days."

Slowly he shook his head. "No, I haven't really, sir. Not since this began."

Kirby smiled, and it took no effort at all. "You should sleep better tonight." Kirby thought they all would, in all likelihood, except perhaps Horatio St John-Smyth.

He excused himself for the time being, offering to bring Wilkins back a soda. First, though, he had to make sure to tell Darcy and his girl the good news.

……… 

Somehow it was enough for now to sit on a bench next to her, her fingers entwined in his own. There was no pressure to speak; he just occasionally squeezed her hand to reassure himself she was really still there, that she hadn't really left him, though he felt increasingly foolish for ever having thought she had. She would then squeeze back, daring a little smile, looking up with a twinkle in her eye. He envied her confidence that this was all really over, and though he smiled in return, he didn't dare allow himself to let out that pent-up breath and totally relax. Matt and his uncle were on a nearby bench but could have been half a world away for all he'd taken notice of them.

"Mr Darcy?"

His head whipped up, and in a flash he was on his feet. It was DI Kirby, and he looked very serious, his hands folded behind his back.

"Yes," said Mark in a quiet tone. He felt Bridget's hand on his arm.

The detective inspector cracked a smile at last; before he'd even spoken a word, Mark suddenly felt the weight lift from his shoulders. "It's as we hoped—Wilkins is telling us everything we need to know. We've got Dawkins in interrogation as well; DI Washington's in with him and she tells me he's eager to talk and to protect his son."

"Bloody brilliant!" exclaimed Bridget from beside him.

Mark put his arm around her waist. "Couldn't have said it better myself. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he said. "Thank that pretty little girl of yours."

Mark looked down to her; she was grinning madly. "He already has, sir, but thank you."

"Do have one question for you, Mr Darcy," said Kirby. It unnerved Mark that he pulled out a notepad, but quickly calmed himself. He was in the clear. "Wilkins keeps mentioning an event that triggered this whole conspiracy. Apparently Mr St John-Smyth left a dummy ledger or something out on his desk about a week or so ago, and you were looking through it. Do you happen to remember anything about it?"

"A ledger?" Mark struggled to recall. Horatio was a corporate lawyer, had ledgers of all shape and sizes passing over his desk all the time. "I don't have much of an accounting background so I wouldn't know a bogus ledger if it jumped up and bit me on the hand. They all pretty much look the same to me."

"Had you previously been suspicious of any illegal activity in chambers, especially with regards to Mr St John-Smyth?"

"Hadn't crossed my mind."

DI Kirby chuckled. "The peril of being well-known for your mental prowess, Mr Darcy. If they hadn't endeavoured to destroy your reputation no one would've been the wiser to his dirty billiards." He tucked the notepad back into his pocket. "Well. Shouldn't think there's any reason why you'd want to stay around. In fact, you might want to make good your escape before the media catches wind that they're hauling in St John-Smyth for conspiring against you. It'll be a madhouse when they descend upon this station."

At long last, Mark Darcy exhaled.

………

For the ride home, Mark had insisted that Bridget take the front passenger seat beside her friend Matt, leaving Nick and his nephew to occupy the back seat. Definitely more spacious than the Mini, but not by much, and thankfully the ride was not a long one.

Nick looked over to Mark, who'd seated himself behind the driver. It was clear he was lost in thought, but it was impossible to tell if he was merely staring forward through the windshield, or gazing with affection at his betrothed.

The boy had had a very difficult few days, and had a rather remarkable girl to thank for uncovering the truth, so either one would have been understandable.

As they drove past Holland Park Road to their drop off point on Strangeways Terrace, Nick noticed that the reporters had thinned out a bit, but that was likelier to do with the late hour than news of the arrests having gotten out. It would have been madness to try to head up the front walk, even if the remaining reporters _were_ still convinced the trio was still inside the house.

The car slowed than stopped. "We're here," said Nick.

It was nothing more than a normal speaking voice, but Bridget jumped in her seat.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." 

She then turned around to look at Nick and offered a smile. "I must have dozed off."

The corner of his mouth to turn up in a smirk. 

"All ashore that's going to shore," joked Matt.

Unexpectedly Bridget leaned over and gave Matt a quick hug, planting a smooch on his cheek. "You have been beyond valuable to me this week. I owe you big time."

"We both do," came Mark's voice from beside Nick, who turned to try to gauge the expression on his face. Mark looked weary, but he was still smiling. Definitely a good sign that all doubts had been banished from the fool's head.

"Lunch can be your treat for the foreseeable future," said Matt, grinning lopsidedly. "Now go on before someone calls the police to report a scary old beater of a car is loitering."

She opened her door and stepped out. As the two men climbed out of the back of the old two-door, Nick couldn't help but notice the moment Mark got within reach of her he settled his hand upon her waist as they walked side by side to the gap in the hedge. They cut through to Mark's property like school children sneaking back after curfew. Even in the faint moonlight he could see that despite obstacles like the oddly upturned bird bath, Mark was loathe to take his hand away.

It suddenly struck Nick that all of these small gestures of affection reminded him of his sister and her husband, how after forty years of marriage Malcolm still treated Elaine like she was a queen, how they could not bear to be parted from one another. It was a mystery what made relationships work—God knows he'd had his own share of problems in that area—but it always seemed obvious when they did.

Confident he was not being observed, he allowed a tender smile.

………

"I can't wait until tomorrow," said Bridget.

"Why's that?" asked Mark, as they all slipped back in through the French doors.

"Because by then word will be out that those three have been arrested, and we won't have to keep climbing through shrubbery to get in and out of your house."

Mark chuckled, entering the code to prevent the alarm from going off. "I never realised how much I took the front door for granted."

Nick turned to the pair of them. "Well, it's been a trying day. I'm heading upstairs for a nightcap, then it's off to bed with me. Good night." He smiled, nodded his head once, then went through the kitchen to the stairs leading up. Bridget also walked towards the kitchen, hoping to find a bit of a snack.

"Bridget. Come here."

She turned to see him standing there in the dim room. A faint light shone in through the glass paneled door and through the skylight overhead, yet still she had a difficult time reading his expression. Nevertheless, she went over to him.

He held out his arms and she accepted his embrace eagerly, pressing her temple against his collarbone. She felt his hands slide down to curve gently around her backside.

"You know," he said after a few minutes, "I couldn't do this before."

"What, grope my—" she began playfully.

To her great surprise, he smacked her very firmly and briskly on the bottom.

" _Mark—!_ " she squeaked, rearing her head back with a look of shock.

" _That_ was for working behind my back," he said matter-of-factly, then added tenderly, "And so is this."

He then reverently took her face in both of his hands, brushed his thumbs against the apples of her cheeks, and reached down to kiss her with a passion she had somehow managed since only the morning to forget he possessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Being cautioned upon arrest](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miranda_rights#England_and_Wales) (what the constable says to Wilkins when they're cuffing him) is the English equivalent of being "read your rights" (a.k.a. Mirandized) in the US… very interesting! (Courtesy of Wikipedia.)


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday.

Oddly enough, what woke Bridget the next morning was cheery birdsong. She lifted her head from the pillow, thinking for a moment she must have been transported overnight to another planet, or at least, the English countryside, but no, it was still Mark's spacious bedroom, still his off-white linens, still the man himself slumbering beside her in bed.

Perhaps she was dreaming. She turned over and fixed her sleepy gaze on him, smiling to herself. She was still thoroughly exhausted from the events of the day before; she still couldn't believe she'd led an undercover sting operation for the Metropolitan Police, and that it had actually worked. She could hardly wait to get it all down in her diary for posterity—but other vitally important things had taken precedence.

She traced a finger over his bare collarbone. Vitally important.

He stirred, not opening his eyes, and mumbled, "Am I late for work?"

She laughed. "About four days late."

His eyes fluttered open in confusion until he came out of his dream haze, and the reality of the day before came back to him. Thankfully, a smile found its way to his lips.

"Do you hear birds?" she asked.

The question seemed to take him by surprise. "Do I hear _what_?"

"Birds! You know, those tweety things that fly."

He laughed. "No, Bridget, I do not hear birds. You're mad." He turned over and pulled her close for a snuggle. "Of course, that _is_ one of the things I like so much about you."

She had a brief thought of avian revenge on a Hitchcockian scale for damaging their favourite birdbath, but soon slipped into what could best be described as a state of bliss. It felt fantastic to know they had no battles to wage that day. Oh, the reporters might still be lurking about hoping for a quote from Mark regarding his traitorous law partner, but Mark was in the clear and everyone would soon know it (if they already didn't). She felt safe and warm cuddled in his arms, and in fact came perilously close to falling back to sleep when she realised he'd continued speaking. "—what it stands for."

"Hmm?" she murmured drowsily.

"Well, I've been puzzling over this for a bit, and I'm perplexed."

"Over what?"

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" he asked as she felt his lips brush against the top of her ear.

"I'm sorry, I didn't."

"Your friend Matt. Rather _attractive_ fellow, by the way." She awakened instantly with the first pinpricks of danger as to where this conversation might be headed, and she had no power to stop it. "Well, obviously the 'M.' stands for Matt, in the address book entry in your phone. I just can't put my finger on what the 'S.' might mean."

 _Oh God_. She felt her skin flood with heat; damn him and his razor-sharp brain. He'd obviously already guessed. She heard him chuckle, confirming her suspicion. "Hm. Perhaps 'solemn'?" he continued. "'Studious'? Oh, I know. 'Stubborn'."

She realised it was best to meet the assault head on.

"Actually," she said, propping herself up on one elbow to look at him, grinning wickedly, "it's a word that applies to you, too."

"Ah," he said. "'Sleepy'. 'Subdued'. 'Scruffy'."

"'Smart-arse'," she quipped, ruffling his hair before patting it back down.

"Does it apply to you as well?" he asked.

She briefly pursed her lips, the corners upturned in amusement. "Well, _you_ seem to think so, anyway."

"Ah. That helps." He pretended to think about it. "'Sweet'?"

"No," she giggled. "'Silly', more like."

He raised his hand to her face to brush the backs of his fingers along her cheek. "'Soft'?" he asked.

"No." Her laugh that time was cut short when she saw a very familiar look in his eyes.

He then stroked her shoulder, trailing his fingertips down over the thin fabric covering her breast. "'Sensual'?"

"You're getting closer."

As he bent forward and touched his nose to hers, he said, "Hm. So I am."

She tilted her head and kissed him.

He took hold of her hip and pushed her back against the bed.

"Really, really close," she sighed as he nuzzled into her neck.

"I hope so," he said, then silenced her for quite a long time afterwards.

………

"Elaine? It's your brother."

"Nick! Such a relief to hear your voice. How's Mark?"

Nick set his coffee mug back onto the kitchen table then set the newspaper down. There, larger than life across the front page, was a photo of the primary accused conspirator, his hand obscuring his face, the headline proclaiming that confessions had cleared Mark of all suspicion and possible wrongdoing.

He hated handsets, but the phone in Mark's kitchen was not equipped for conference mode. He shifted it to his other ear. "I'm sure he's doing fine. I imagine he's having a bit of a sleep-in. I can't imagine the poor boy got much in the way of good sleep during this ordeal." Of course, he told himself, there was no guarantee he was actually sleeping now, either, but such a comment to the boy's mother might not be received terribly well.

"And Bridget?" Elaine chirped.

"Haven't seen hide nor hair of her either."

"I imagine not," said Elaine in a tone that suggested, quite scandalously, that his sister had already drawn the same conclusion.

Oddly keen to change the subject, he said, "You know, the papers will never say so, but it was thanks to Bridget that Mark's not sitting in a prison cell."

"What?"

After swearing her to keep it to herself, he gave her the short version of Bridget's work with Matt (minus the reference to the drama resulting from the misinterpretation of available facts by Mark), interrupted quite frequently with gasps and exclamations of surprise. "I always knew I liked that girl for a reason," she said proudly at the conclusion of the tale. "And how about you? You can't have been around her all week and not have formed an opinion."

"Four days."

"You're splitting hairs. And avoiding the question."

He laughed low in his throat. "Had my doubts at first, but she's rather proved herself."

"I'm glad you approve," Elaine said with a laugh.

"I'm serious. I was afraid she'd be like another one like _her_ —" They both knew to whom he was referring. "—but she disabused me of that notion in short order. She clearly loves him, and heaven knows he loves her. Frankly, she's just what he needs."

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, and he turned to see a sleep-tousled Mark standing there in his robe, grinning like a fool at having caught his weathered old uncle spouting what came dangerously close to romantic babble.

"Be careful," said Elaine, undoubtedly echoing her son's thoughts, "or they'll be coming to take your cranky old geezer card away."

"Hmmmpf," he said in reply.

"Do ask Mark to call when you see him, will you?"

Nick pointed to the phone, soundlessly mouthing, "Your mother."

Mark shook his head, miming drinking from a coffee cup. Nick pointed to the counter, indicating the French press. 

Elaine continued, none the wiser, "I'd very much like you all to come and spend the night out in the country with us. I expect you're sick of being cooped up in Mark's house."

It was a capital idea. "I'll be sure to mention it," he said, watching Mark carefully doctor one of the two mugs of coffee he'd poured with milk and sugar, then place a couple of chocolate croissants on a plate. "Talk to you later. Good bye."

Nick reached over and hung up the phone, then cast his gaze back to Mark. "You're looking much improved over yesterday," he proclaimed.

"Amazing what a little good, restful sleep can do," he said, putting the whole lot on a small tray. Indicating the stairs up to the main floor, he said, still smiling, "Well. The lady waits."

"How do you feel about an overnight trip to your parents'?" he called after Mark.

Mark turned briefly. "I'm inclined to spend one more day keeping to ourselves."

Nick thought for a moment, then reached for the telephone again. Perhaps the mountain would come to Mohammed, after all.

………

Faintly Bridget heard the ringing of her mobile, drawing her from a sleep she hadn't realised she'd drifted back into. She felt no urge whatsoever to leap up and get it. It was probably Jude, Shaz or Tom, dying to know what had happened to completely turn everything around in Mark's favour, and she did want to talk to them, but she wanted to relish this morning before life went back to normal.

No two ways about it, though: normal was welcome in comparison to what they'd just been through.

The bed sank, rousing her once more. It was Mark with breakfast. She smiled, sitting up, taking a plate and setting it on her thigh before grasping the coffee he offered her and sipping it. Perfect as always.

She studied him for a moment, then began, "You look—"

"—much improved. So I hear." He raised his cup to his mouth, then lowered it, looking thoughtful. "Well," he said, grasping her free hand with his. "I'm afraid you're stuck with me now."

"I kind of thought that's what this meant," she said with a small smile, glancing meaningfully at her left hand.

"No, I mean _really_ stuck now." He had the most playful look on his face she'd seen in a while.

"I'm not following."

"Uncle Nick," he said, quite seriously. Playful and enigmatic.

"I still don't understand."

"It isn't often that he gives his blessing, so when he does, best not to go against his wishes."

"What?"

"I'm afraid, my darling, you've managed to get past the barbed wire and land mines, and win the old bugger over."

Of its own accord she felt her mouth turn up in what must have been an incredibly smug smile. "Oh."

"Congratulations." He pulled her hand to his lips and delicately kissed the back.

………

Unbelievable.

She set the newspaper down, ran her shaking fingers over her brow. She picked up her telephone and quickly dialed his number. It rang several times before being answered by an tremulous, apologetic voice explaining that he wasn't available. She hung it up. It must have been true.

Certainly it was not what she'd expected to see over breakfast.

Her thoughts were not with him though—if it were true, and it seemed inescapable, then he deserved to be charged. No, instead she thought of the man whose life had almost been ruined, and of how she had so easily been led to believe those lies to be the truth. She was ashamed of the doubts she'd had, and knew instantly she must make amends.

She used the phone one more time.

………

Mark knew that it was well into early afternoon, but he found he did not care. He hadn't quite realised just how bone-weary he'd been since this whole thing had begun on Tuesday. It felt fantastic to just lie in bed and recharge, watching the shadows moving across the ceiling, Bridget resting peacefully against his chest. He could hear the faint murmur of chatter on the walk—the reporters, undoubtedly—and he briefly considered composing a statement to give them so they'd bugger off once and for all. He felt the faint rumblings of renewed hunger in his stomach but the feeling was not strong enough yet to compel him to disturb her.

He felt Bridget's fingers swing in an arc along his abdomen up to his shoulder. He responded by planting a kiss into her mussed hair.

"You're awake?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm," he replied. "Just loathe to move."

"We probably ought to soon, before your uncle sends the homicide squad up here thinking you've offed me and yourself."

He laughed. "You're right. We should get up."

Neither made a move.

"We should at least shower."

"Mmm. Yes."

Nothing more was said for so long that he was sure she'd fallen back to sleep, but she raised her head and planted her chin on his chest.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I'm going to miss spending so much time with you," she said in a surprisingly maudlin tone.

He chuckled, raising a hand to smooth down her hair. "Leave it to you to find the bright side of a scandal that nearly ruined me. You make it sound like it was practically a mini-break."

"You're taking the piss out of me," she said with a pout, resting her cheek down again.

"That wasn't my intention, darling. In fact, I quite like that you look for the bright side of things." He turned towards her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "In fact, it's pretty contagious."

"Oh?" She pushed herself up so that her head was beside his on the pillow.

"Yes." He swallowed to gather a little courage, because he realised he couldn't continue as they had been, seeing each other three to four times a week (not always ending in spending the night); there were times when their work schedules prevented them from even talking by mobile for a day or two at a stretch. "How would you like to make this a more permanent arrangement?"

She laughed lightly. "Silly, you've already asked me to marry you."

"I mean the actual living situation."

She blinked, then her eyes searched his as if attempting to gather more information. "Oh," she said at last. 

"Ideally," he continued, taking advantage of her silence, "I'd prefer to live in your flat, but practically speaking… I mean, my office and law library alone would take up your whole living room."

"Live here?" she managed.

"Did you expect to have separate homes after the wedding?" he said, teasing gently. "If you object to the house itself, there are others, you know."

"I'm just a little…." She didn't finish her sentence, simply snuggled close to him, pressing her cheek against the pulse in his throat. 

………

 _…overwhelmed_. Mark had actually asked her to move in with him. Being engaged was one thing, but taking the initiative, thinking of moving her into his space before the official commitment…? She never expected it.

"We can talk about this more later," Mark said in a very reassuring tone.

She felt herself nodding. After many minutes, she declared softly, "Today is a very good day, indeed."

Mark tightened his embrace, then kissed the crown of her head again, startling her out of her reverie. Then he released her. "Come on, love, let's have a shower and take on this very good day together." She watched him sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the bed, ran his fingers through his short dark hair. "Oh. Did I mention Nick spoke to my mother? They want us to come up for an overnight visit."

"Strangely enough, I don't want to go out," she said tentatively, hoping he hadn't set his heart on going.

"I suspected you might feel that way. Frankly, I feel the same."

She smiled, relieved.

He stretched and turned to kissed her once more, ostensibly one last time before going into the bathroom and firing up the taps, but it quickly deepened and she felt him climb back onto the bed, pulling her to him. As much as she enjoyed it, felt herself falling into that familiar ecstasy, she erupted with a little giggle, which stopped him in his tracks, a confused look upon his face. "Homicide squad," she reminded. He sighed, dropping his forehead to her collarbone.

"Compromise?" he asked quietly.

"What's that?"

"Can we continue this in the shower?"

She chuckled. "Who'd've ever guessed you'd turn out to be such a horny little devil?"

He raised his head, smirking smugly. "I have to keep up with you, don't I?" 

With that he rose and went into the loo; she heard the sound of the thundering water start up moments afterward. She glanced to her mobile. The calls would, once again, have to wait.

………

He must have had quite a change of heart, indeed.

Elaine pondered what she could recall of Nick's reaction some months ago when she'd told him of Mark's engagement. His words were not particularly kind, laden with references to sunken-cheeked ice-queens with sticks up their bottoms and eyes firmly set on Mark's bank balance. In vain she had tried to convince him otherwise but he'd been unmoved.

"Malcolm, no, we are not buying Persil," she said, momentarily brought from her thoughts by her husband, who stood in wonder and glee, holding an enormous box of biological washing powder. Her husband the admiral had sailed the seven proverbial seas, but Tesco was apparently uncharted waters. "We have no need for soap today." 

To think Nick had gone from that… to _this_. Such a turnaround effected in only four days was nothing short of a miracle. Elaine had been nearly speechless when Nick had called her back, asking them to come down for the evening, explaining Mark's reluctance to leave the house and what Nick had planned. She agreed readily, volunteering to bring whatever Nick needed. She wouldn't have missed this momentous occasion for the world.

Elaine sighed once again. "Malcolm, honestly, no. We don't need a potato peeler!"

………

"I think your answerphone is filled to capacity," said Nick as the two late sleepers, freshly showered and fully dressed, ventured into the front sitting room.

"I'll bet it is," Mark said sourly as Bridget took a seat on the sofa beside Nick, who was in the middle of another crossword. "Reporters wanting me to say something about Horatio, no doubt."

"Not the calls I overheard finishing breakfast," offered Nick. "One was… Jeremy? And your _assistant_." Mark grinned. "Offering kind words and 'it was only a matter of time's." Nick was thoughtful a moment more. "And someone called Camilla who sounded very eager indeed to speak to you. Is she someone from your office too?"

"Yes," answered Bridget absently as she read over Nick's shoulder, "she was the one with Horatio at lunch."

Nick replied, "Ah. The fart-arse old windbag." 

The silence following this comment was deafening. He looked up to Mark to see the boy's face rife with puzzlement, then looked to Bridget as her expression of mirth at his response disappeared from her face, replaced by a deep crimson.

"What on earth are you referring to?" queried Mark, still blinking with confusion.

Nick said nothing. He'd promised not to.

After a few moments during which the affianced pair locked silent gazes, Bridget said very unsurely, "Well, that day I had lunch with Tom and the girls, he and Camilla were there at a nearby table, saying rather unkind things about you. I had to defend you."

"Bridget," Mark said darkly, "how exactly did 'fart-arse old windbag' fit into my defence?"

"Leave her be," said Nick dismissively. "As facts would have it, she was completely right, so there's no need for lectures or spankings."

Mark looked terrified, probably once more at the concept of his uncle and his fiancée forming any sort of lasting alliance. Nick also noticed Bridget flush a bright pink again, which caused his right eyebrow to raise and an impish grin to tease the corner of his mouth as he speculated as to what exactly had gone on after he'd retired for the evening.

"I… think I'm going to go upstairs and use my mobile," she said, rising from the sofa quickly. "Have some calls to return."

After she'd left the room, Nick said, "So, my boy, why don't you tell Bridget you're taking her out for a special celebration dinner?"

Mark looked puzzled. "But I'm not."

"Ahhh, but you should _tell_ her you are."

He had never underestimated Mark's intellect in the past, and today proved no exception. "What have you planned?" asked Mark, drawing his brows together.

Nick was feeling particularly smug. "I don't care what you do the rest of the day. Just show up dressed for dinner at seven in the dining room."

Mark did not reply, simply looked mystified.

At that moment they heard a firm rapping on the glass on the front door. Silently, Mark rose to see who could be so bold as to actually mount the front porch.

"Oh," Nick added casually. "One more thing. Stay out of the kitchen."

………

"Who is it?" Mark asked curtly.

"Mark, I know I'm the last person you want to see right now, but please let me in. I'll take only a moment of your time."

 _Camilla?_ Mark remembered Jeremy's words about not everyone in the office believing in his innocence, Camilla and Horatio mentioned specifically by name. When Nick had mentioned she'd called, and Bridget confessed to their lunch together, Jeremy's news had made a whole lot more sense in retrospect.

He disabled the alarm, then unlatched the locks, swinging the door open just wide enough to confirm her identity before allowing her passage. He closed it behind her and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets as he asked, "What can I do for you?"

She looked like a frightened fox cornered by a pack of hounds, but she kept her gaze steady and fixed on his own. "I'm sure word has gotten back to you regarding… opinions I may have voiced about you."

He nodded. "Yes."

"I wanted you to know that I'm heartily sorry. In trusting the wrong person I did you a grave disservice."

"You did."

"Surely you realise how damning the evidence seemed to be."

"Strangely, there were people who barely knew me—" He thought of Matt. "—who managed to believe I hadn't done it. Why didn't you?"

She sighed. "I should have. I _am_ truly sorry. You can ask your girlfriend; I know she overheard my conversation with Horatio at Café Rouge. I never said I thought you'd done it. It was all 'if's—"

"Bridget never mentioned this conversation to me," Mark interrupted, raising his voice, "and she surely would have thought to mention that you at least had made a move to defend me or at least give me the benefit of the doubt."

"It was all his doing," she said, the hint of a pleading tone entering her voice. " _He_ planted any doubt I might have had in my head. No one, not even _you_ , had the faintest idea he was behind it."

He conceded her the point, but was still too freshly hurt by the whole situation to do anything more than regard her in silence for a moment more. "For a woman of your age and intelligence," he said at last, "you perhaps should work on not being so suggestible. Now kindly leave."

"Mark—?"

" _Leave_ ," Mark reiterated. "The fact that you came down in person to apologise works in your favour, as a sign of your sincerity. But right now, I am ill-equipped to dispense forgiveness. I need time to think about it. I'll see you next week." He strode to the door, held it open for her. Lowering her eyes at last, she held onto her handbag's strap with white knuckles and left the house.

He stood in the foyer for a few moments to collect himself before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see his uncle, who patted it reassuringly before heading towards the kitchen.

"Nick," Mark began.

"Yes, Mark?"

"Since we're apparently banned from the kitchen," he asked, "could I trouble you to fix a couple of small sandwiches?"

Nick laughed. "Certainly. Go wait on the sofa."

He did just that, grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen on the way from the writing table to compose a statement to the press. As a member of the family and his informal counsel, he didn't think Nick would mind reading it.

………

_I felt like Inspector Bloody Tennison!_

She stopped, bringing the tip of her pen back to her lips, and smiled, satisfied with what she'd written (an abridged account of the last four days) whilst laying on her stomach diagonally across Mark's giant bed. Her mobile rang; it was Shaz. She answered it eagerly, as the Urban Family hadn't picked up their phones earlier. 

"We were at the cinema. We're at 192 having drinks."

"Ah, that explains it."

"You did get our messages then? We're thrilled this seems to finally be over."

"Believe me… so are we."

"We wished we could have done more!" Shaz said in a rather pouty tone. 

"You did quite a lot," Bridget replied. "You got me the background on the tech who turned out to be not so pure and innocent after all. And Jude cracking the code on those statements, very Dan Brown, hurrah. And Tom… well, he kept me from physically assaulting Horatio in Café Rouge—that counts for something!"

Shaz relayed Bridget's words over the din of the club to the others, and she heard them cheer. "Tom says something about swimming trunks…?"

Bridget flushed red. She'd forgotten about the wager. "Tell Tom I'll do my very best."

Shaz did; Bridget heard Tom whoop. Shaz then asked, "Can you come meet us? You must be going mental in Mark's scary white house."

She considered for a moment. "Well, the reporters are still down there, so I think we planned to stay in again."

She imagined the smirk on Shaz's face as she said, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you kind of liked being holed up in there with him."

Bridget grinned. "Aside from the, you know, accusations of criminal behaviour, I _have_ quite liked being with him so much."

Shaz snorted with laughter. "You're such a Smug Almost-Married."

She gasped, suddenly recalling Mark's earlier invitation to live with him. How could she have forgotten she hadn't told her friends yet? "Wrong! I'm a Smug Going-To-Be- _Living_ -With-Someone!"

Shaz went silent before asking, "Did you just say what I think you just said?"

"Yes."

More silence. And then Shaz squealed like a little girl who'd just gotten the pony she'd always dreamed of.

"Oh my God," came a voice from behind her, "I could hear that scream from here."

She flipped over, phone still to her ear, and returned the smile bestowed upon her.

"Hi Mark," called Shaz; Bridget then relayed the greeting to him, and he told her to return it.

"Hi back, he says. I'll call you later."

"No you won't."

"You're right. I probably won't."

Shaz laughed. "Bye."

She folded her phone shut, then, turning onto her side, supported her head with one bent arm and stretched her other arm along her side, her hand resting upon her thigh.

"Thought maybe you were planning a secret rendezvous with S. M.," he teased.

"Darn, you're onto me. Shaz isn't really a woman at all, but Matt in disguise."

"That would explain why I've never seen them together." He came closer to the bed, handing her a sandwich made on a small dinner roll. She accepted it, suddenly feeling quite hungry, then took generous bites until it was gone. Mark merely watched in amused silence as she devoured it, then said, "Listen, while this is a very attractive position for you, I'd like you to get up and dressed for dinner."

"I _am_ dressed."

"No, I mean something a little more formal than trackie bottoms and a tee shirt. We're expected two hours from now."

She gaped. "Mark, all of my dressy clothes are back at the flat. I didn't exactly grab anything suitable for a black tie affair in my mad, middle-of-the-night dash here."

"We can go get one then."

"You've lost your mind. The reporters—"

"—are in the middle of being dispatched by my uncle."

Fighting off the image of Nick Wentworth running members of the press through with a great sword, she asked rather stupidly, "What?"

"I've written a statement addressing this whole affair. Nick is issuing it for me as we speak, after which they will be asked to leave or face harassment suits."

She grinned. "You are a genius."

"If I were a genius, I would have done this hours ago."

She batted her eyelashes in an exaggerated fashion. "You were otherwise engaged."

He laughed. "Apt description. Come on."

She grasped his proffered hand and he pulled her up.

"Let me slip into a suit and then we can go." 

………

 _I was terribly shocked that someone I worked so closely with for many years, someone I felt I knew very well and considered a friend, could surprise me and hurt me with this level of betrayal. This is all I am willing to say, and I ask that you leave my family, my fiancée Bridget Jones and least of all_ me _alone, for we are not willing to comment any further. We are not interested in making Horatio St John-Smyth out to be some kind of a monster. We will instead content ourselves with justice handed down by the Crown. Should you choose to disregard my wishes and continue to harass my loved ones or me about this matter, you will find yourself reminded by means of legal action…_

Nick mulled the words over in his head as he stirred the mushroom and ginger soup, how dignified a response it had been, making the consequences of continued pursuit crystal clear. He pulled the ladle up, touched the end of the spoon to his lips for a taste of the amber concoction. _Just about perfect_ , he thought. He picked up the stock pot and set it on a back burner, firing the hob up to a simmer setting, and covered it with a lid.

He checked on the Cornish hens roasting in the oven. He hated using that godforsaken microwave oven, but sometimes it was a necessary evil, especially when it came to quickly defrosting frozen meat. He spooned a little honey-soy-ginger sauce over each, listened with satisfaction as the drizzling brown liquid hit the pan and sizzled in the heat. He thought it would nicely compliment the Madiera it was simmering in.

As he rose to his feet, Nick heard footsteps on the stairs down to the kitchen, and he cursed under his breath. How was he supposed to focus on cooking if he kept having so many interruptions?

Sternly he began, "I thought I told you to stay out of the kitch—" He turned around, stopping short. It wasn't Mark at all. It was Elaine.

"Nick? Where's Mark?" she asked, approaching him and handing him a carrier bag filled with fresh asparagus, raspberries, heavy whipping cream and second bag containing a small sack of jasmine rice.

"Oh, these look nice," he said, bringing them to the prep counter then pulling the handfuls of spears out to inspect them. Perfect for steaming, served with more of the same homemade honey-soy-ginger sauce—

" _Mark_. Is he here?"

"Hm, no, he called down earlier to say that he was taking Bridget back to her flat to get dressed up. Appears he forgot to reset the alarm."

"No, we disabled it when we let ourselves in." There was a pause before she added, "It's nice to see you too."

Nick knew a scolding when he heard one. He turned to see her smiling. He set the tender shoots down and went back to his only sister, giving her a loving hug. "It is good to see you," he said in a sentimental tone most unlike himself.

"That's more like it," she said; he could hear the smile in her voice. She pulled back, staring into the oven and to the five little fowls roasting there. "My God, Nicholas, this smells marvelous."

Prepping a saucepan in which to steam the asparagus, he smiled in a very self-satisfied way. "Thank you. Where is Malcolm?"

"Oh, you know Malcolm. Straight for the scotch. He'll meet us in the dining room."

He chuckled, glancing to the clock. 6:35 p.m. Nick had confidence in Mark's punctuality. Bridget was an unknown factor in that regards, however.

"If you could be so kind as to lay out the table upstairs, my dear Elaine—you know where everything is."

"I'd be delighted. Have you chosen a wine yet?"

"That's my next task," he said, heading into the lower sitting room, and towards the little-used door around to the right, the one that housed Mark's wine cellar.

………

"Are you sure I shouldn't go with the blue?"

Bridget stood holding a lovely silken dress of the deepest blue up against her, obscuring the black dress she'd initially chosen and presently wore. They were surrounded by an explosion of clothing, shoes, hosiery and accessories.

"It really brings out the blue in my eyes," she continued, sharing her reasoning with him.

"You hardly need a dress for that," Mark said drolly, glancing to his wristwatch before he stood. He grasped the wrist of the hand holding the second dress, and pulled it away, his eyes immediately traveling downward, following the deep vee of the neckline. "I'm sure you look fantastic in that blue dress, but I happen to have very fond memories of the first time I saw you in _this_ dress."

It was in fact the dress she'd worn to his parents' Ruby Wedding party. She hadn't realised he'd even noticed it at the time. She smiled.

"It was my mother who invited you that day. I suspect she _might_ have had a motive."

She giggled. "Parental interference wins yet again."

"You know," he said in a low tone, "what do you say we come back here after dinner, like we always do?"

"But it's a mess," she said, looking around herself to underscore the obvious.

"Candlelight is very forgiving. And there's something to be said for waking up without my uncle skulking about and smirking knowingly when we do appear."

Bridget felt her mouth form a large O. "He _doesn't!_ I mean, I didn't notice…"

"I know the man's subtleties," said Mark. Bridget was mortified a million times over, sure she would spontaneously combust the moment she saw Nick again. "Well. shall we? Our table awaits." He extended his elbow to her.

Happily taking it, she grinned.

………

A smug smile spread across Nick's face as he stood, brushing his finger over the label of the wine bottle he held in his hand. _Barbaresco_ , he thought. _Perfect_. Luckily Mark had more than one bottle of the aromatic red, so he pulled a second from its yoke there in the cellar, then headed back into the kitchen to get the rice to cooking and to whip up the chocolate mousse for dessert.

He tried not to think about the fact that it was quarter to seven. He felt like there was still so much to do… and he was still unsure whether or not the missing couple would turn up on time.

………

Mark glanced over to Bridget as they settled into the car, and she recognised the appreciative nature of his smile once again. She'd done her hair simply, brushed it out and left it loose around her face and softly curling upon her shoulders, which he always seemed to like very much. But she watched as his features seemed to fall with disappointment, as if he'd just remembered something troubling. He patted at his jacket pockets then trousers.

"What's wrong?"

"We'll have to stop back to the house. I've left my wallet behind."

She could have sworn she'd seen him transfer his wallet into the suit jacket, but surely he'd realise if he had it on him. They were back at the house in hardly any time at all and the walk in front was, thank goodness, still devoid of reporters. "If you don't mind coming in with me to get it while I talk to Nick for a moment, I'd really appreciate it. I'm certain it's on my desk."

"Sure."

They emerged from the car; Mark opened the front door and went for the alarm control panel, entering the code. He then gave her a gentle pat on the backside to urge her towards his office, then strode into the front room. "Ah," she heard him say, "there you are. Just wanted to let you know…"

His voice faded as she went towards the back of the house, towards Mark's office. In doing so she passed the little-used dining room as she always did. It occurred to her two steps beyond that door that the dining room doors were nearly closed when usually they were wide open. Curious, she stopped and glanced back; the scant opening revealed the room to be alive with light, rather odd considering it was quite dark outside. She walked back for a closer look into the room through where the doors were parted.

The ivory room was bathed in golden hues from candles set in a gorgeous centrepiece upon the table, which was apparently set for dinner with the gold-rimmed china that she had only ever seen displayed in the cabinet up against the wall. There was a matching, covered tureen on a rolling cart next to the table, and through the indentation in its lid (to allow for the handle of the serving spoon) a thin stream of steam curled toward the ceiling. The deep burgundy-hued drapes were closed, their golden tiebacks dangling towards the floor.

She felt a hand brush against her waist. Mesmerised by the vision of the perfect dining room that had appeared out of nowhere like a mirage, she almost jumped, turning around to find Mark there, convinced that when she looked back into the room, it would be gone. But no, there it was.

"Looks like our table is ready," said Mark.

"What have you planned?"

" _I_ have planned nothing."

Suddenly the door swung inward to reveal Nick, an uncharacteristically broad grin overtaking his entire face. Behind him, also initially out of sight, were Mark's parents.

Mark continued: "I was told only to be sure you and I were present in the dining room at seven. I trust we're forgiven for being a few minutes late?"

"Of course you are," said Elaine, rushing to her son and embracing him tightly. It was the most affectionate she'd ever seen Elaine with him. "Oh, Mark, we're ever so thrilled this is over for you."

"I hope you know that we knew you to be completely innocent all the while," offered Malcolm, surprising everyone by giving his son a warm hug.

"Of course," said Mark, sounding a little emotional as well.

"And Bridget, my darling," continued Elaine, stretching her arms towards her, "We hear tell that it was you that worked to bring the truth to light. Whatever would we do without you?"

"Indeed," commented Mark with a beaming smile to her.

"Come on," said Nick. "The soup's going to get cold." He then pointed Mark in the direction of the head of the table; his parents, in complete disregard of protocol, chose to sit together to Mark's left. Nick claimed the second seat from Mark on the right side, leaving the one nearest to Mark for her. Bridget was convinced that the entire arrangement rankled his sense of etiquette to the core, even for a group this small.

"So who were you talking to in the front room?" Bridget asked, puzzled, as Nick began serving soup.

He grinned. "No one. It was a ruse to get you to go towards the dining room. I knew your curiosity would get the better of you." She heard his mother chuckle and she turned to look at the woman directly across the table from her, smiling with fondness. Bridget smiled back. She never really understood why his mother had always liked her so much, but she was very glad that she did. Elaine would, when the time came, certainly be considered one of the finest examples of a mother-in-law in existence.

………

Absolutely stunning. When Bridget came into the dining room with her hair neatly groomed, beautifully made up, and wearing that elegant dress, Nick knew for certain at that moment that every single one of his initial impressions about her—about _them_ —had been absolutely incorrect. Never in his life had he been so happy to be wrong, especially regarding the sincerity of their affection for one another.

He might have been a jaded old cynic, but deep down he really did love a happy ending.

………

Nick had really outdone himself this time. The hens were so tender the meat was practically falling off of the bones, the sauce it was served with sweet and tangy. His ability to perfectly steam the asparagus was something five star restaurants would pay good money to harness, and set over the sweet-smelling jasmine rice, the presentation and taste were unmatched. Mark was not exactly sure why his uncle had gone all out for the evening like this, but he was certainly glad he had.

Mark was enjoying his third glass of wine (another excellent choice; he had been waiting for a good opportunity to uncork this particular vintage, and it couldn't have been done so for a better meal), nearly finished with his meal when Nick unexpectedly cleared his throat and began to speak.

"I hope this meal was to your satisfaction, Bridget."

Mark's gaze flew to her; as expected, she looked stunned. "Of course it was! I haven't had a meal this good in forever." She paused to consider, then added, "Did you think I wouldn't?"

Deadly serious, Nick said, "When I cook a meal to welcome a girl—excuse me, _woman_ —into the family, I just want to make sure she actually _likes_ it."

The subsequent silence was thundering. It wasn't often that Bridget was rendered absolutely speechless. To watch it happen was a special kind of joy. He then glanced to his parents, who were both looking at Bridget with a continued warmth.

"It may be a little late into the meal for a toast," continued Nick, standing and raising his half-empty glass, "but: to Bridget. May she keep Mark safe, happy, and on his toes for many years to come."

It was as near to sentimental as his uncle was likely to get, and as they all stood, Mark raised his glass and toasted the beaming beauty beside him, drinking the rest of his glass down in one swallow.

"And, my dear boy," added Nick, grinning impishly as he pointed his glass towards Mark, "I hope you realise _you_ will never have another day of peace for the rest of your life."

It might have been the wine's influence, but Mark could not suppress a laugh. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Just then, Bridget proved the veracity of Nick's words when she unexpectedly stepped closer to Nick and hugged him, planting a kiss squarely on his cheek, and said, "Thank you, Uncle Nick."

Mark could swear that Nick blushed.

………

"You know, I think we ought to stay here tonight after all."

After a magnificent chocolate raspberry mousse and coffee for dessert, the engaged pair had seen Malcolm and Elaine off for the evening. With them had gone Nick; after his uncle had expressed a desire to ride up to Grafton Underwood, Mark had insisted. Nick had already run a few loads in the dishwasher during the course of the preparation of the meal, and Mark had told him they would finish with the washing up of the dinner plates and the remaining pots and pans in the morning. They'd waved as the trio headed down the street. Nick, who'd had the least to drink that night of the lot of them, was thankfully behind the wheel. Secretly Bridget had suspected that's why he wanted to go, because Malcolm wouldn't defer to his wife when it came to driving.

He might have liked to deny it, but the coot had a heart, and a big one to boot.

Now, after closing the door and securing the house for the evening, Bridget was watching Mark walk across the hardwood of the foyer as he headed for the stairs up to the bedroom. He was weaving ever so slightly, but weaving nonetheless. Incredulous, and fighting off a laugh, she asked, "You're pissed, aren't you?"

As he was having trouble navigating the first step, he conceded, "Perhaps a little. It was a very good wine."

She chuckled. "It was at that." She slipped her arm about his waist. She was pretty sure he'd had at least half a bottle on his own.

"Far pleasanter circumstances than the last time I got hammered."

She involuntarily blinked in surprise. She'd never seen him more than a little tipsy before. "When was that?"

He didn't answer until he reached the landing, and she realised as he did so it was because he had been concentrating very hard on ascending the stairs. "Last night."

When he thought she'd left him. "Ah."

"As I said. Far pleasanter circumstances tonight."

As they entered the master bedroom and pulled the door closed behind them, Bridget thought again about Nick's little toast. She'd been deeply touched and surprised by the meal in her honour as well as his kind words, but she could not help but wonder…. Welcoming her to the family? How many times had his only uncle on his mother's side of the family welcomed a girl, a woman, to the family? Just the once, before her? Or were there others?

Mark slipped out of his suit jacket, sat on the bed, then loosed his tie before fumbling with his shirt. It was as if his fingers had decided to take the night off, and he couldn't push the tiny buttons through the holes. She smiled. "Allow me," she said, stepping between his knees and undoing the top buttons. 

She felt his hands firmly on the backs of her legs, as if he were holding on to her to prevent himself from falling backwards. Even still she was not able to shake her curiosity on the subject. "Mark," she asked gently, "Did he ever cook for—"

"No," he replied decidedly, looking up to her as his hands glided upwards. "He did not."

Evidently Mark was not _that_ plastered.

………

Sunday.

The sun had the temerity to come brazening in at an unholy time in the morning, and Mark Darcy would have told anyone who'd asked, if they'd asked, that it had a lot of nerve in doing so. The most he could do was put his hands over his eyes and groan as the ball bearings in his head shifted when he turned over in bed, to reach for soft, sweet-smelling comfort.

Oddly enough, Bridget was not beside him.

"Darling?" he asked, the roughness of his own voice surprising him. Risking the wrath of the Wine Gods, he pushed himself up on his elbows. Only a tiny bit of sloshing.

She did not reply. He called again; still no reply. He was beginning to think she was not in fact upstairs at all.

He fell back down onto his pillow, swore he heard glass breaking in his head. Bloody hell. He wanted an aspirin and a glass of water with which to wash it down, but that meant standing upright, and that wasn't going to happen pre-aspirin. Now he knew why he did not make it a habit to drink to excess, at least not without imbibing copious amounts of water before going to sleep.

He felt the bed beside him sink with the weight of a second body, and he half-hoped it was the Angel of Death come to spare him further pain. To his great fortune, it was Bridget, bearing, bless her amazing little soul and her psychic little mind, the longed-for water and aspirin.

"Lightweight," she said with a smirk.

Followed by a coffee chaser and some dry toast. Fantastic, perfect morning.

The aspirin and caffeine filtered into his brain and reassembled the bits of clockwork there. "I've done the washing up, and before you ask," she said, holding up her palm to him, "I did not break or chip a single piece of china, nor did I run any of it through the dishwasher."

"Probably because you couldn't _find_ the dishwasher," he said, nursing his coffee like it were a precious treasure. But he couldn't help smiling, especially as she did not deny it.

"Don't know if you remember this from last night," she said after a few minutes, "but your mother invited us to come up for the day."

"Hm." He drained the bottom of his cup, feeling one hundred times more human. The headache had been beaten into submission, reduced to a dull throb. "Yes. Let's pack a few bags and head out to the country."

The smile she gave in reply was all the answer he needed.

………

"Mark?"

"Yes?"

"We've just passed the junction for Grafton Underwood."

A beat, then, "So we have."

"Aren't we going to have to turn around?"

"Don't think so, no."

Puzzled stare. "I thought we were going to your parents'."

"No, I'm pretty sure I asked you if you wanted to go to the country."

More silence, then a concerned, "Where _are_ we going?"

He grinned. "Don't look like I'm taking you off to butcher you. I thought you said you _wanted_ me to be more spontaneous."

"So where are we going?"

He didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure yet."

No reply. "Um," she said at last. "For how long?"

"I'd say at least a few days. I think Jeremy has my cases covered, won't mind if I delay my return back."

Worried tone. "What about _my_ job? Finch isn't going to continue to give me an open-ended holiday."

"Quit."

Stunned, gape-mouthed look. "Easy for _you_ to say, Mr Hundreds-of-Pounds-an-Hour-Barrister."

Chuckle. "I know you're too proud to be a kept woman. I meant you don't have to go back to work _there_."

"Oh." A pause. "Well, Shaz did mention getting me on with her paper."

"There you go."

More silence, then smiles, then snuggling close as much as the safety belt would allow.

_The end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised: the original character in this story is based fairly heavily on a character from an obscure 1986 British miniseries entitled ["Lost Empires"](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090476/). Firth's character's uncle is named Nick Ollanton, and he's portrayed by [John Castle](http://www.johncastlegallery.com/). I have only watched the first two hours so far… but the character was quite inspirational. :)
> 
> Inspector Tennison is Helen Mirren's character from ["Prime Suspect"](http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/masterpiece/primesuspect6/).


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